


Clover, and Other Beloved Weeds

by chaya



Series: Flora [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22443424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaya/pseuds/chaya
Summary: Set after 'Ivy on the Hill', but it reads just fine on its own.A series of vignettes. All of this lives in the pocket of time between The Mountain Breakup and Geralt finding Ciri.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Flora [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637206
Comments: 640
Kudos: 2845





	1. New Normal

Jaskier likes to insinuate himself into places he was previously not allowed. At campfires, when Geralt is not using a whetstone or otherwise occupied, Jaskier will rearrange Geralt's legs and general positioning until there is room for him to sit in front of the larger man, comfortably nestled.

The first time he does it, Geralt looks at the back of Jaskier's head, stunned into temporary silence. Geralt had gone to the trouble of setting up a second dry log not far from his own, and Jaskier has chosen the ground in front of him instead.

A few moments later, when the fire's larger branches have caught and Jaskier relaxes back into Geralt's chest, Geralt decides that this is... actually pleasant. His gloves are still covered in bark and deer guts, so he takes them off and sets them aside, using bare fingers to nudge between doublet buttons, to the small dip in his chemise, petting absently over his collarbone. Jaskier hums, content.

**

"It'd look like this," Jaskier says.

It's not until Geralt turns, and looks at Jaskier's fingers weaving through Roach's mane, and thinks about it a moment, that he realizes Jaskier is still continuing the conversation Geralt thought was over half an hour ago.

"I don't need my hair _braided_."

"I'm good at it!" Jaskier sounds a little petulant. "It'd stay away from your face while you fought. It wouldn't be too tight."

Geralt watches the small, simple design being woven into Roach's mane. The fact that she's allowing Jaskier to do this is treachery.

"If you don't like it, you can take it out before we get to town."

Geralt feels like this should have been put to rest back when he first said 'no'. He turns away deliberately, continuing to break down their camp. "Why do you care so much?"

Jaskier shrugs and seems to really consider his answer, finger-combing through Roach's mane a few times before gathering three new pieces of hair. To his credit, his second braid does look identical to the first. "I used to do it a lot for the girls at university, I suppose, and I got used to doing it nearly every evening. Now that I think about it I kind of miss it. It was a nice little bonding time."

"You don't need to put ribbons in my hair to seduce me," Geralt rumbles. 

Jaskier's quiet for a while, watching Geralt bundle up the bedrolls. "Maybe I want to anyway," he says finally. "The girls always said it felt nice. And I liked doing it."

**

It feels incredible.


	2. Training

"Try it."

"I'm so bad with these things, Geralt." Jaskier is looking at the weapon with extreme distrust. "Really, no thank you."

Geralt holds the hilt out a little further. "It's light, even for a short sword. Good for nimble hands and weak arms."

"Oh, _thanks_ so much, I-"

"Please."

Jaskier goes still at the word, other than his eyebrows flying up past his fringe. Geralt keeps his face blank, waiting, until: "Wwwell. It's not like. He'll be needing it anymore." Jaskier gestures to the dead bandit at their feet with his left hand and takes the weapon with his right, fingers curled uncertainly around its grip.

"I'll teach you to use it. Some simple parries." Geralt watches Jaskier take a few steps back and try a few movements - his footing is terrible and his wrist is bent out for some reason, painful to look at. But he's trying something that someone taught him once. Taught him poorly.

"Just... promise you'll be patient, if I'm awful."

 _You are_. "I will."

**

Jaskier does get better. He doesn't like training, but he puts in a lot more effort than his complaints would have one believe.

He still hates having to draw it, but he gets very good at his 'don't make me use this' routine, which on occasion gets a rowdy or coin-craving human to back off and leave him alone until Geralt can come and defend him more securely.

Months after Geralt gave him the blade, when Jaskier finally has to use it to cut someone down... Geralt watches Jaskier at the edge of the campfire, back turned, not completely understanding. He gets up anyway, walking around the ring of stones, and sits next to him. Says nothing. When Jaskier lets his head fall onto Geralt's shoulder and he lets out a weary, bone-deep sigh, Geralt just brushes his cheek against the crown of Jaskier's head and says nothing.


	3. Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ┬┴┬┴┤( ͡° ͜ʖ├┬┴┬┴

"Talk," Geralt growls, and Jaskier sucks in a breath and watches him sink to his knees.

"You're getting really good at this, you know." Jaskier gulps as Geralt's hands curl around his hips, pinning him to the back of the inn room door. "I'm not just saying that. I used to - oh - I used to fantasize about so many things between us, but - fffuck - but I never imagined you sucking me, gods, I guess I thought you were too stuck uuuuuuuohh," Jaskier knocks his head back against the door. "I was wr-wrong. I was wrong. You're a very relaxed, open-minded man who... whose gag reflex is... getting more under control by the... ohhh, fuck." Geralt looks up in time to see Jaskier's teeth dragging over his reddened bottom lip, his eyes lidded and dark. "I don't think I ever could have imagined how good you look when you - _hah_ \- do this..."

Jaskier edges his fingertips toward Geralt's hairline, nails turning in and scratching lightly down the sides of his head, over his ears. It feels nice. Like when Jaskier braids his hair, but with more lust and desperation laced into it.

" _Fuck_ I might come in your mouth. Fuck. Can I please do that. Please."

Geralt considers it.

**

What's even better is when Geralt doesn't have to ask him to say anything. If wound up enough, Jaskier just _babbles_ , helpless to stop himself.

"Nobody's ever fucked me like this," Jaskier breathes, bearing down on Geralt's three fingers and giving a soft whine as Geralt's eyes snap open and lock on his. "Fuck, I can't - Geralt, _please_ , please, I'm ready, I know you're big but I think I can-"

"Quieter, there's people in the next room." Geralt wants nothing more than Jaskier to keep talking, but if someone comes and bangs on their door, that'll be a problem.

"I c- _I'm trying,_ it's hard to -" Jaskier's hand flies down between his legs, to Geralt's wrist. "-don't _stop,_ gods, I'll kill you, okay, I won't, I'll be quiet, I promise, mnnn..." Geralt resumes, so Jaskier takes his hand back, throwing his arm over his face instead and then pulling it a little lower so he can gnaw on his own forearm. "Nnn _nnn_ m."

Geralt keeps pumping into him, watching the rosy flush kindle even deeper on his skin. "Say it again," he says, as Jaskier's breath quickens, and his cock begins to twitch and pulse with more precome.

"Nobody. Gods, nobody. Fuck. Geralt. Nobody."

**

"Talk," Jaskier says one night, pulling Geralt's bedroll blanket down past his waist.

Geralt blinks up at the night sky. "Uh." He hasn't experienced this turnabout before. Jaskier's rucked Geralt's shirt up and his tongue is going down his chest, his sternum, to - to the side, deviating to his hipbone, where the bard starts to leave a lovebite. "You fucking tease." Geralt draws in a slow breath as Jaskier finally does start unlacing his trousers and pulling everything past his thighs.

Jaskier can't take all of Geralt down, but he _can_ go as far as possible without his gag reflex bothering him, the sensation of dragging against the roof of his mouth, to the back of his throat, over and over again... it does start to drive Geralt to a pleasant sort of madness. He loses some time to it before Jaskier's swatting at his thigh, reminding him.

"Fff. It feels _good_." What else can he say? "You're so _eager_..." He pants as Jaskier moans around his cock, encouraging. "You like this almost as much as when I'm getting _you_ off, don't you?" Jaskier has him dripping wet, now, clever fingers stroking up the shaft as he bobs up. Geralt reaches out to either side and curls his fists around some handfuls of grass, noticing that Jaskier seems to be getting messier, now, hands gone as they do... something. He might be getting his own cock out. "You _do_ , you little ... ahh, fuck-" Geralt shudders as Jaskier pulls back some and mouths at the head, slow, making sure it's soaking wet. Geralt's fingers curl tighter. "You know what else?"

Jaskier huffs in through his nose, giving a soft 'nn?' questioning sound as a response. In the quiet of it, Geralt can hear the other man stroking himself off. A heavy rush of arousal jolts through him, making him twitch in Jaskier's mouth.

"If you didn't sing for a living, I'd have my hands in your hair and I'd be pulling you down to choke on my cock as often as you'd let me."

Jaskier makes a noise Geralt can't quite put a name to.


	4. Body Worship

Geralt is tired from his contract, so he goes upstairs and lays down before Jaskier's performance is concluded. He listens through the creaky walls and floor to his lover's voice. After a while, he suspects that the man is projecting upwards a little now, toward him.

It is pleasant to drift off to. He had intended to stay up until Jaskier had come up and turned in, settled on top of him in a warm collection of limbs and sleepy sighs, but sometimes the gentle aches of a busy day have other plans.

It's almost an hour later when the door opens and Jaskier strolls in, closing the door behind him, locking it, and immediately tossing a small coin purse onto Geralt's chest.

Geralt jerks fully awake, sitting up a little. "Hey." The purse is heavier than he would have expected for a night of singing - Jaskier seems smug, dancing around the room as he removes all his clothing.

"We can take a break before your next job," Jaskier sing-songs, shimmying out of his trousers and small clothes. Geralt admires the other man's body and laughs when Jaskier crawls on top, fingers curling back around the coin purse, capturing Geralt's mouth in a kiss.

"And what would you want to do with a break, I wonder." Geralt smirks, allowing Jaskier to take his wrists and put them above his head. Jaskier can get very decisive about what he wants to do during these moments, and Geralt doesn't see any point in not permitting it.

"I'm gonna _sing_ more..." Jaskier gives Geralt's crossed wrists a little squeeze, an indication to stay put, as he shimmies down and kisses Geralt's cheek, his neck, his shoulder. "...and we're going to eat things other than _fish_ or _venison_..."

"I like venison."

Jaskier scoots up and pecks him on the cheek again. "I know. I want cheese, though. And steamed vegetables. And-"

"Yes, all right, whatever you want." Geralt rolls his eyes. "I'm at your mercy, obviously."

He'd meant it as an obvious joke, but Jaskier's eyes light up at the words, in a way that frankly makes Geralt worry. "Whatever I want," he echoes, and yes, that's definitely worth worrying over.

"How much in tips did you make down there? What are we buying tomorrow?"

"Not thinking about what I can buy, anymore." Jaskier's hands stroke down Geralt's sides, warm and soft, little callouses on his fingertips that make Geralt shudder. "Gods, you're so lovely. Hold still."

Geralt doesn't think he's anything of the sort, but he can hold still. Jaskier's hands drift over his torso, his hips, mapping his shape, coming to rest on his chest and squeezing his pectorals.

"These are wonderful," Jaskier informs him.

"You're drunk."

"I'm _right_."

Jaskier tips forward and nuzzles in the space between them, breathing in the scent of Geralt's skin, nuzzling his chest hair. Geralt doesn't think Jaskier's _drunk_ , exactly, but the wine has definitely gotten him looser than he normally is, more sassy (completely unneeded) and more likely to say whatever comes to mind (same but more so).

"Mmm." Jaskier's hands spread out over Geralt's ribs, brushing against years of scars, licking across to a nipple and working it gently with his tongue. Geralt watches him and allows it, surprised when a small spark of arousal rushes through him. He hasn't had this done to him often, but apparently he hasn't had it done with this much... _reverence_ before.

"Jaskier," he says, because 'that feels good' or 'keep doing that' are unnecessarily cumbersome.

Jaskier makes an understanding noise and begins to lave more forcefully, flicking Geralt's peaked nipple back and forth until Geralt lets out a quiet groan, legs drawing up a little and hands making an aborted move to come down and grab onto something - preferably, Jaskier's arse. He can feel Jaskier's cock getting hard against his thigh, and Geralt's is already dragging against Jaskier's chest with every inhale and exhale.

When Jaskier's palms close in, squeezing and massaging his chest in handfuls, Geralt has an immediate urge to bark something out - ' _I do not have breasts',_ perhaps - and his effort to quell that knee jerk reaction is interrupted by how distressingly _good_ it feels, Jaskier's thumbs brushing over both nipples now, gentle and then firm and then pulling, lightly, making him draw in a rattling breath.

"Fucking." Jaskier's mouth is grazing over one, teeth scraping a little before he begins nuzzling again. "Gorgeous."

"I think you're getting more out of this than I am." Geralt hopes his voice is flat enough that Jaskier might actually buy that.

Jaskier makes an ambiguous noise as a response, setting his lips to Geralt's left nipple and sucking gently.

_Fuck_. "Can I bring my hands down?"

"Nn-nn," Jaskier replies. He scrapes his teeth on it a little, not letting go, and Geralt punches the headboard but otherwise stays still. The teeth are little shocks of pleasure, the rest of it a heady sort of pleasurable massage that won't let his arousal go down. Jaskier's thumbs drag and press on the undersides of each, stroking and cupping. Geralt's cock is going to get stuck to Jaskier's belly at this rate. When Jaskier pulls his mouth away, the saliva is cooling on Geralt's skin, making him shudder. "Could you flex them for me?"

What? " _No_."

Jaskier pouts. "You're sure?"

"I'll push you onto the floor."

" _Fine_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NEW NOTE: 2/1/2020)
> 
> So, Cait, who's been cheerleading, has been doing [some incredible fanart](https://caitercates.tumblr.com/post/190581257795/show-chapter-archive) for the Witcher/my fics... and if you visit her [18+ twitter account](https://twitter.com/CaiterBates/status/1223468680572473346) you can see the FABULOUS sketch for this chapter:
> 
> GODS BLESS Y'ALL


	5. Others

"One room, two beds," the innkeeper says, repeating it back wrong.

Geralt takes in a calming breath. "One room, _one_ bed."

"Ah." The mustachioed man looks up from the keys and nods a few times, looking past the Witcher to Jaskier waiting at his side. "And you'll be wanting, sir?"

"Same room, same bed." Jaskier smiles with far too much teeth and tilts his head coquettishly. "Problem?"

There is a problem, Geralt knows, and that's exactly why Jaskier always insists on asking - the younger man wants it out in the open, wants it exposed so it can be cut down. People hate this. The innkeeper hates this, lip curling a little under his facial hair and looking back to the keys. "None, sir, let me see if I have such a room available."

 _Such a room_. As if there were not several keys at his hands, and as if a room with a single bed were something strange and rare. This is not unusual, Geralt has found - the person called out will take any kind of power they have and try to hold it over himself or Jaskier. Perhaps we don't have any food to serve you at all. Perhaps we don't have any rooms for you. It's only ever a few seconds, but it seems to make them feel better in some pathetic way.

"No rush, I'm sure it's a complex task." Jaskier's beaming now, tossing his hair a little. "There must be, what, six keys? Eight, even? A lot of mental maths."

Geralt hmms, mostly to cover up a smile.

" _One_ room, _one_ bed." The innkeeper holds up a key, not extending it yet. "Eight marks."

Almost definitely the cost of a double room. So be it. Geralt pulls it from his purse and holds it out in his hand instead of sliding it across the table, watching the man hesitate before holding his hand out to take it. Geralt takes the key, pocketing it.

"Will you be staying long?" The innkeeper asks.

"Likely not. Beast's already dead, we'll be leaving in the morning." In a moment of inspiration, Geralt turns to Jasker, bending at the waist a little and hoisting him over his shoulder like a sack of flour before nodding back to the innkeeper. "Thank you."

The first few steps are made in silence, and then Geralt can feel Jaskier lifting his hand to wave goodbye, can see his legs kicking up and down in impish glee. "I wish you a lovely good night! I know _I'm_ going to have one. Ta. Ta!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was holding on to this snippet for later, but Cait, who is some sort of agnostic celestial being made of light and adorable scribbles, has been cheerleading for me and [recently drew some precious art for me](https://caitercates.tumblr.com/post/190581257795/show-chapter-archive), including this one, for this scene:
> 
> ...so as you can see, my hands were tied.
> 
> (Also, her 18+ twitter account has [an extra picture](https://twitter.com/CaiterBates/status/1223468680572473346) which lines up with last chapter's scene... just fyi)


	6. Quality Time

"Oh no," Jaskier says as he slides out of their bed at Ensenada Palace, and the tone of those two words causes Geralt to sit up in mild alarm.

"What did you do."

Jaskier continues to the window, stopping in perfect contrapposto and looking outside with faux-hesitant fingertips at his lips. "I've made a _terrible_ mistake."

Geralt hates waking up to problems. Even more, he hates waking up to problems that aren't making themselves clear. "Jaskier," he rasps, letting a warning growl seep into his tone.

"I'm so forgetful." Jaskier is using a sort of sarcastic voice, a bad-acting voice, and it is too early in the fucking morning for Geralt to suss out what it's supposed to mean in this context. It's... early, but the light shining on him from the window is actually very considerable...

Geralt slides out from under the covers, tensing at the cold castle air and shouldering Jaskier out of the way somewhat so he can look out over the mountains. Said mountains, which last night were dark and barren with very little scrub and very few trees, are now almost completely capped in white. It's hard to tell exactly how much snowfall there was last night, but it was more than enough that the dirt path roads are completely obscured, covered by at least a foot and a half of snow if not more.

"Roach can't travel in all that," Jaskier is saying in that same fake-sad tone. "She'll just have to stay in that warm, comfortable stable she's in, and we'll have to-"

" _Jaskier._ "

"-stay in this very nice room with a very nice bed," Jaskier continues as if he hadn't spoken, "and eat the lovely food prepared in their kitchens, and-"

Geralt reaches for Jaskier's shoulder and misses once as the other man begins to pace. "You told me last night that the mage said the storm wasn't coming until _day after next_."

"I must have heard him wrong." Jaskier is pretending to be sorry, but he's also making it very clear that he _isn't_ sorry, and this game is driving Geralt up the wall. "Oh, what a mistake, we should have left last night before the banquet but instead we have to stay here and enjoy nice things."

Realization strikes Geralt like a thunderbolt. "Is - is this about your stupid rant? About me needing a break from fighting?"

"Oh nooooo," Jaskier says again, and flings himself dramatically back onto the pile of blankets on the bed. As he does so, he kicks his foot out towards his pack on the floor, which tips over with several clinking glasses.

One item falls out and rolls across the thick deerskin rug. Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a very soft, heartfelt curse.

It's a bottle of oil.


	7. Quality Time II

Geralt and Jaskier are not the only guests who stayed overnight and have become snowed in. A servant comes to bring them breakfast and let them know that several people are congregating in the dining hall to play cards and generally keep each other entertained.

"That's so kind of you to let us know!" Jaskier beams and takes the tray of plates, setting it to rest on the dresser next to the door. "And future meals will...?"

The young boy clears his throat. "We will serve them in the dining hall, if it pleases you."

"Actually, it would please the Witcher and I even more if you could just, say," Jaskier gestures toward the hall. "Leave them by the door and give us a knock? We're pretty tired after the performance on my part, the killing of demons on his part, we're just going to have a kip and stay in. Thanks so much. Thanks ever so. Bye. Bye for now."

From the arm chair by the window, Geralt watches as Jaskier keeps pushing the door closed in increments, ignoring the stuttering of the servant boy and finally closing the latch once the door is shut completely.

"Bacon," Jaskier enthuses, eyes already back on the plates as he claps his hands together. "And some eggs, some nice _fresh_ bread, we haven't had _freshly_ baked bread in a while, have we, Geralt?"

Geralt levels Jaskier an unimpressed look, which Jaskier misses because he's arranging a plate.

"Don't tell me you're still upset?"

"You _lied_."

Jaskier snorts. "Honestly, I think you're overreacting over a small mistake. A mistake which, may I point out, has led us to some lovely free lodging for a couple days, free food, any comfort we could require, the royals are basically honor-bound to provide as we're stuck here with them."

"Because you _lied_ ," Geralt growls.

Jaskier turns, revealing a plate piled high with food, and plucks a fork up from the tray before walking over and offering it to Geralt. Geralt does not move from his place, and it's then that Jaskier's face falls a little, brows coming together. "Breakfast," Jaskier says softly. "Hot food? Hot fresh food? Smells nice to sensitive Witchery noses?"

And it does, but Geralt's in no mood to budge and give up over a fucking plate. He lets his lip curl a little as he continues to hold the other man's gaze.

And Jaskier seems to be trying to work this out, even though, even though Geralt has already _said_ \- "I lie all the _time_ ," Jaskier says, clearly a little impatient at the tension, but then his eyes track past Geralt and he seems to work something out. "But. Okay, okay," he gestures with the fork, "I lie all the time, but I lied to, to _you_ , this time."

Geralt tilts his head a little and lifts his chin, expression unchanging.

"Alright, I suppose..." Jaskier sighs and sets his fork-holding hand on his hip, sucking through his teeth. "I suppose that is different. Yes. I see that - you do see that I lied for a _fun_ reason, though, to keep us here, and you get to rest, and-"

"You chose that _for_ me, after I specifically _told_ you I didn't need any kind of 'break' or, or,"

"Holiday," Jaskier provides, the word sounding so natural in his educated accent.

Geralt throws his hands up in exasperation.

"And you said we couldn't afford to, and you were right! We could have shacked up in some shitty inn for a few weeks, but we'd be eating nothing but soup and where's the pleasure in that?"

" _Pleasure_ ," Geralt echoes with extreme prejudice.

Jaskier's shoulders drop. " _Yes_ ," he says. "You can roll your eyes all you like, but you _do_ need rest, you _do_ need nice things sometimes, and - you know what else?" Jaskier sets the plate down on the end table next to Geralt and squats down, looking at him at eye level. "You _deserve_ them. I'm not always sure you know that."

Geralt feels something in him bristle at this, pull away. "If you wanted to go back to life in the inner walls," he snaps, "with roast pig and warm hearths, you could have saved us both some time and just said as much."

This statement hangs in the air for a few seconds. This close to Jaskier, he can see with great clarity the way Jaskier's expression changes before he turns away and stands. Jaskier's eyes widen, and his mouth opens and turns slightly downward, surprised and... hurt. This all wasn't for Jaskier, Geralt is suddenly certain. However coddling and uncomfortable Jaskier's words about Geralt are, Jaskier _does_ believe them, and carried out this stupid plan solely with Geralt in mind.

Implying Jaskier needs or wants this indoor life, after he's spent years on and off in the absolute muck with Geralt, wasn't fair to do. And, if the continuing silence means what Geralt thinks it means, was hurtful.

Jaskier is still standing turned away from him, hiding his face. Geralt stares at his back a few moments, trying to work out what the fuck one is supposed to do in a situation like this. He takes a breath, taking in the scent of the food, and - actually. That might be the best thing.

Slowly, Geralt leans toward the end table, picking the plate off it with a small scraping sound and pulling it to his lap. Then, he gently pulls the fork out from Jaskier's hand, leaning back in his chair and beginning to eat the food Jaskier arranged for him.

After a few bites, Jaskier turns around. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, and he looks like he's downcast and trying not to be. "...is it any good?"

Geralt chews, swallows. "You should make your own plate and find out." When Jaskier drifts toward the dresser with the tray on it, Geralt hooks his ankle around one of the other arm chair's legs, dragging it closer so they can sit next to one another as they eat.

Jaskier turns his head at the sound of the chair, and while Geralt makes sure to keep his attention on the food, he's pretty sure the other man smiles a little.


	8. Quality Time III

"So you aren't still upset," Jaskier says uncertainly, stacking the finished plates onto the tray.

Geralt grunts and looks back to the window, where fresh snowfall has begun. Realizing Jaskier is still waiting a lengthier response, he says finally, "I don't want you to lie to me again. ...I shouldn't have said you did this for yourself."

"I didn't," Jaskier agrees, and seems more himself as he crosses the room again to the chairs. Instead of taking his seat again, he arranges himself in Geralt's lap, legs dangling over an arm rest. Geralt snorts in amusement. "And," Jaskier's a little more serious now. "I won't."

"Good," Geralt rumbles. He wants that to be the end of it. Jaskier seems to want the same, face tipped hopefully toward his, sighing in contentment when Geralt responds by nuzzling his cheek, his throat. Jaskier's chemise is soft against Geralt's chest, and he finds himself glad that neither of them got fully dressed yet.

Experimentally, Geralt draws his tongue down until he reaches the hollow between Jaskier's collarbones. The answer is immediate - a swell of arousal in the air, a hitched breath. "Geralt," Jaskier mumbles.

"That oil you brought." Geralt can feel Jaskier's heart begin to race, rubs his cheek against the pulse point in the other man's neck. "You want to...?"

" _Yes_ ," Jaskier breathes. "It's been... ages and we still haven't..." He's already breathing faster as Geralt gathers him up in his lap, holding him in place, driven by Jaskier's reactions. Jaskier often seems to like some level of forcefulness, and Jaskier's excitement never fails to stoke Geralt further.

"I'd have taken you ages ago if you weren't so picky about where we are when I spread your legs." Geralt lets his voice get lower as he says it against Jaskier's ear, reveling in how it makes the bard tremble. Geralt looks down into Jaskier's lap, deciding to let go of his thigh so he can drag the heel of his palm against the growing erection. "You're certainly hungry enough for it, aren't you?"

Jaskier is practically melting. Something about the tension of the earlier disagreement is making this all the sweeter, and when Jaskier finally opens his eyes again and looks at Geralt, his pupils are huge and dark. "And you?"

Geralt lets himself indulge a little, leaning down just enough to graze his teeth against the side of Jaskier's neck, biting down to leave pinprick marks. Jaskier responds with a faltering cry, drawing himself up tightly, gripping Geralt's arm like a lifeline. The smell of human arousal is so much thicker in the air now. Geralt shoves an arm under Jaskier's knees and then his shoulders, hefting him up as he rises out of the chair.

" _Fuck_ ," Jaskier whines. He seems nervous to move at first, and then he seems to see the lack of effort or strain on Geralt's face, because he leans up, looping his arms around Geralt's neck and practically demanding to be kissed. Geralt indulges him - Jaskier tastes mostly like the food they just ate, but that's perfectly fine. His mouth is soft and desperate as ever, tongue insistent to be let in. Geralt growls when Jaskier begins nipping at his lower lip, hoisting Jaskier higher without warning so he can grab under each thigh instead. Jaskier's legs wrap around his waist instantly, ankles locking at the small of his back, and Jaskier's writhing against him now, breathing faster still and face hot. "Want you so badly," Jaskier pants.

Geralt's fingers tighten on Jaskier's thighs. It's hard to think clearly when the bard's like this. He thinks he knows how to give him what he wants, but he has to try slowly at first. "I'm going to put you on the bed," he murmurs, nose to Jaskier's. "and I want you to strip down and get on your knees for me. Understand?"

Geralt had expected to need to do some work to figure out if Jaskier liked that tone or not. Instead, Jaskier's entire face is red, pupils growing larger as he nods several times. Geralt walks him over and sets him down, watching Jaskier untangle himself and immediately begin to wrestle out of his socks, trousers, and small clothes. When his cock is finally exposed, it's as rigid and flushed as Geralt's ever seen it. He can feel his nostrils flare a little as he walks over to the abandoned bottle of oil, plucking it up and tossing it onto the thick pile of blankets before beginning to push his own clothes off.

Jaskier gets unsteadily onto his knees, already leaning for the bottle and unscrewing the metal cap to ease some fluid onto his fingers. "You're going to open yourself up this time?" Geralt asks, a little amused before he realizes that this means he'll also get to watch.

Jaskier doesn't look up from what he's doing, even when Geralt's cock is finally free of its garments. "You'll tease me and take forever, I know it," he pants. "I don't have that kind of patience."

Geralt stands by the bed and just watches. Jaskier starts to screw the cap back on before giving up on it, setting the bottle and cap both on the nightstand instead. He sits up straight, arching his back and reaching behind him, taking no time before beginning to press in with - one finger? Two? Geralt can't tell from looking at him from the side like this. Jaskier looks beautiful, chest warm and flushed, thighs flexing, mouth open slightly as his cock twitches up in reaction to something his fingers did. Geralt reaches down to his own erection, stroking it slowly in time with the flexing movements of Jaskier's bicep, his little shallow breaths, until he's noticed.

"You're... not coming?" Jaskier breathes, grinning a little. Geralt snorts, settling at the headboard and slouching a little. He wants to keep watching, but Jaskier's looking over him, a silent question on his face of where he should go.

"In my lap," Geralt rumbles, gesturing. "Where you belong."

Jaskier whimpers and crawls over on his knees, eyes locked on Geralt's thick erection as he leans back further, pressing in more deeply to himself and starting to set a slow rhythm. Geralt can see the slight strain around his eyes now, he must be stretching himself further - the quiet sounds are obscene, wonderful, and Geralt feels like he could stand to stay cooped up in this castle for quite a while longer if he gets a show like this every day. "I need more time," Jaskier says, sounding apologetic. Geralt frowns.

"Don't rush." It comes out a little more authoritative than he meant it to, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind. Geralt reaches between them as Jaskier continues to finger himself, squeezing the head of Jaskier's cock lightly, smearing the precome over the head and watching Jaskier's whole body tremble with it. "Shh." He does it again, barely touching, listening to Jaskier's shallow breaths and the sounds of his penetration. Jaskier's teeth drag over his lower lip, reddening it, and his lashes flutter as he concentrates. Something in Geralt's chest stirs and he curls his hand around Jaskier's side, an anchoring weight. Jaskier would want to hear about his enjoyment, he realizes. "I _like_ watching you like this."

Jaskier lets out a brief laugh, looking a little shy. It's... gorgeous, Geralt realizes. "I'm a showman to the last," he says, and looks to the nightstand. "I think... I'll be ready soon. Will you..?"

Geralt nearly knocks the bottle of oil over in his haste to grab it, tipping it generously over his cock before setting the bottle back. Jaskier watches this process hungrily, tongue actually poking out from between his lips for a moment. As Geralt begins to stroke himself, he realizes he's the show, now - it feels only fair to slow down a little, to drag his foreskin down slowly as he covers himself from tip to base, making sure Jaskier will be as comfortable as possible.

Jaskier is still working himself open, and Geralt is pretty sure he's as covered as he can get. In the interests of lasting for any amount of time, he's got to stop touching himself - he reaches out to Jaskier's cock instead, lightly smearing oil down its length, watching Jaskier shudder and hunch over at the over-stimulation. 

"Too much?" Geralt murmurs.

"If..." Jaskier laughs softly again, sounding nearly out of breath. "If you make me come like this, I don't think I'll have any energy left to ride you."

Those words stir something in Geralt's chest, making his cock pulse against his stomach. "If I have to move you by the hips, I don't mind."

Jaskier swallows and looks at his arms, clearly trying to work out if Geralt really could. Geralt just looks at him steadily, one knuckle brushing slowly up and down the underside. "Fuck," Jaskier mutters, and then he's moving his arm, easing his fingers out of himself - this is happening, _finally_ \- and he knee-crawls up until he's hovering above Geralt's stomach, reaching down and grabbing him by the base to line them up.

"Don't rush on my account," Geralt repeats. His eyes are drawn to his cock head, now pressing deliciously against Jaskier's slick opening. As predicted, it feels tight, like there won't be enough give, but Jaskier is clearly in no mood to relent. He presses his lips together, lets out a soft puff of a breath in his effort, and finally lowers down the first inch - it's _incredible_ , that simple breach already sending lightning through Geralt's spine, the heat and grip of Jaskier's body making Geralt's body thrum. His hands fly to Jaskier's thighs, gripping them as they flex, as Jaskier lets out a quiet sound and lowers further, just an inch or so, gasping and blinking several times at Geralt's girth.

"Why do you have to be so _big_ ," Jaskier whines softly.

Geralt huffs out an almost-laugh, thumbs stroking over Jaskier's thighs. "With your eyes wandering the way they do..." His toes curl as Jaskier leans back a little, trying to find an easier angle. "...how else would I keep your attention?"

Jaskier snorts in amusement, but he also looks like he wants to call Geralt an idiot. Geralt can't help but smile, watching as Jaskier huffs and breathes through it, finally lowering down a bit more, and a bit more. He's so _tight_ , hot and slick and perfect, testing Geralt's resolve and making him groan and tilt his head back against the headboard. Jaskier's mentioned a few times that he's out of practice in being fucked, and Geralt can see now that he was right to wait a little, to ease him back into it, because Jaskier is sounding like he's at his limit even now.

"If it hurts-"

"It's _good_ ," Jaskier moans, and brings himself up a few inches on quivering legs to lower himself back down again. Geralt shudders. "Fuck, it's just. It's a _lot_." Jaskier's erection has flagged a little, but he's definitely still aroused, flushed and breathing erratically, shifting again and finding yet another angle at which to lower himself down. "Oh oh oh," as if he has had some kind of sudden revelation, "Geralt, fuck, _Ger-_ " Jaskier's breath comes out in a gasp as he seats himself fully, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a perfect 'O' for a few seconds until he bites his lip and rises up again, slowly but surely, bringing himself back down again and making Geralt's legs flex and tighten against the urge to thrust up and meet him.

"Jaskier." Geralt wants to reach for him, pull him down to be kissed, but he knows better than to move him right now. It's torture. Jaskier is fully seated again, shifting and writhing on Geralt's cock to feel the fullness within him, and Geralt can't tear his eyes away. Jaskier leans forward, planting his hands on the wall above Geralt's head to steady himself as he begins to ride Geralt in a slow, careful rhythm that is both incredible and absolutely intolerable. Geralt breathes through it, the scent of Jaskier's sweat filling his nostrils, finally leaning forward just a touch so he can kiss and lick at the chest in front of him. Jaskier makes a soft noise above him and moves a little faster. _Yes_. 

"Can-" Jaskier swallows. "Can you ... take over?"

"Tired already?" Geralt teases through his breathlessness. He laughs when Jaskier swats at his shoulder.

"I'm _trembling_ ," Jaskier chides, huffy in spite of his current state. "I'm overwhelmed. You can't... ahh... look like that and not expect me not to fantasize about you fucking me."

It's hard to argue with a request like that. Geralt considers it. "I'll have to plant my feet a little... tell me if the position starts to hurt." Jaskier rises up, sighing as he gets high enough to only have the head of Geralt's cock inside him. Geralt moves down until he's lying properly on his back, heels dug into the mattress, and guides Jaskier to lower himself back down. Jaskier's expression doesn't hint at any pain so much as being overwhelmed. He takes a few moments with his hand on Geralt's chest, fucking himself on Geralt's cock as his own bounces lewdly with his movements, and Geralt makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat. "Make up your mind."

"Oh, are you-" Jaskier pants. "-not enjoying this?" He grins, finally planting his hands on either side of Geralt's chest and finding a steady position for his bent legs. When Geralt grips his ass with both hands and fucks up into him for the first time, slowly, he gets to watch exactly how Jaskier's eyes flutter shut in pleasure.

"You..." Geralt works his jaw, struggling for the way to say it as his body becomes overwhelmed by the feeling of Jaskier on top of him, around him, it's so _much_ , it's so much good all at _once_ \- "...you feel incredible. Tell me if. If it's not. Good." Not his most poetic, but it will have to do. Geralt kneads his fingers a little, knowing it will make Jaskier moan, and fucks up into him again, again, until he has a steady pace and he can hear Jaskier's soft sounds of arousal over the sounds of skin meeting skin. Geralt's body feels like it's glowing, like it's spilling over with feeling and energy, but he makes himself remain at the same pace, not too much, not too fast, and that goes well until he realizes Jaskier's falling apart.

"Geralt. _Fuck_." Jaskier's tone is desperate as Geralt speeds up a little, unable to help himself. "Yes, just, keep... fuck. I'm so _close_ , Geralt, I - I feel so _full_ , you're so _fuck_ ing _big_..." Geralt knows that if Jaskier keeps talking like that, he'll absolutely not last, so he needs to speed this up. He moves his right hand around to Jaskier's dripping cock, giving it several rough strokes as he keeps his pace up. Jaskier cries out and slides forward on his elbows, face pressed against Geralt's chest, shaking. "Geralt. _Geralt_."

"Shh," Geralt entreats, only barely able to remember that someone might overhear if they're loud enough. Jaskier's body seems to be tighter than ever right now, and it's taking everything in him not to just spill into it, fill Jaskier up right now, he wants that so badly but he wants even more for Jaskier to come first. "Shh, I know." He lets his hand get a little rougher, letting out a sigh of relief when Jaskier moans against his shoulder, louder and rising in pitch, and Geralt can feel his hand getting damp and sticky as he continues to stroke him. He keeps pumping his hips, holding on until he's sure Jaskier's finished and limp on top of him, and waiting even that short span of time nearly undoes him.

"Geralt," Jaskier breathes, quieter now, and Geralt answers by letting go of his cock and gripping his ass again, tight enough to bruise.

"Can you keep your legs bent for me?" Geralt's voice feels thick with lust.

"Y-yes, I think so, just do it, fucking..." Jaskier's voice quivers as he draws in a breath. "That was so _good_ , keep going, just take m- _ah,_ yes fuck, like... ah..."

Geralt lets himself go, just enough, snapping his hips up into Jaskier's body and groaning at how good it feels. His balls feel so tight. Jaskier is a sweaty mess on top of him, murmuring nonsense, unsteadily keeping his hips up for a few more thrusts until Geralt has to support him, it doesn't matter, he's light as a feather with all this adrenaline, and when Geralt's orgasm finally sweeps over him, the patience was worth it, everything, waiting this long to get inside him, moving slow, everything feels heightened and overwhelming and _perfect_. Jaskier's lips are brushing against his throat as he comes down from the high, a gentle point of contact, something to focus on as he regains his breath and gently sets Jaskier's hips down on top of his. He hasn't begun to soften, yet, and Jaskier gives an experimental little squirm on top of him as he realizes this as well.

" _Mm_ ," Jaskier says with quiet but very heartfelt enthusiasm.

Geralt snorts. Jaskier is more or less a starfish on top of him now, sweaty and limp and unwilling to move. It's extremely pleasant.

They lay there a while, each of them regaining their breath. Geralt gently taps Jaskier's side, indicating for him to get off, but Jaskier wriggles instead, still seeming to enjoy having Geralt inside him. It makes Geralt shiver a little, over sensitized.

"Jaskier."

"That was _very_ nice," Jaskier hums.

"It was. Jaskier. Would you stop-"

"It's _nice_."

"Unless you want to go again, you don't need to tease me like this."

Jaskier's head pops up. "You could go again?" Geralt gives him an incredulous look, gesturing down to the two of them entwined on the bed. "Don't give me that face, you're, what, a hundred? Many men lose that ability after their twenties." Geralt rolls his eyes and taps Jaskier's side again, more of a gentle smack. "Alright, I can see when I'm not - _ah_ \- wanted." The bard makes a point of lifting himself off of Geralt's cock only barely, immediately tipping over onto his side with an arm slung across, keeping Geralt from moving.

"Besides, you're going to complain enough as it is about being sore." Geralt leans away while remaining in Jaskier's clutches, grabbing a dirty shirt and wiping his hand clean, then his stomach, then Jaskier's. "Although I think we used about half that bottle." A beat. "How many did you stow away in that pack of yours, anyway?"

Jaskier doesn't respond, and Geralt thinks it might be an attempt to dodge the question before he hears a soft, familiar snore.


	9. Changes in Habit

As feasts go, this is one of the better ones.

A lot of it is thanks to Jaskier. He heard in advance that a brewer was invited who very much wanted to impress so-and-so in order to secure a marriage of this son to that niece... the details are unimportant, but the drinks are very fine and the hosts are making a point to be generous with it. Jaskier also made sure Geralt was seated next to some older generals, who are the sort who don't feel obligated by etiquette to chat up every stranger at the table. They talk amongst each other instead, and, at most, discover Geralt's covered more territory than they will in their lifetime... at which time they grill him about roads. Which ones flood? Which ones are well-tended, and can support caravans?

Geralt actually loves these questions. They aren't overly invasive, answering them doesn't rile anyone up, and once the question's answered, the men nod and accept it without argument. If only more conversations went this way.

"But once you reach the mountain," the sergeant with the grey beard says.

"There's technically a trail up, but you'll lose horses." Geralt shakes his head. "The rocks underfoot are too much. The closest place you can stable them is half a day west, so if you have the time, you can leave them there."

"Half a day west," the sergeant echoes, nodding.

"It's - hm." Geralt considers for a moment, as the men lean in a fraction. "I will say, I doubt the stable could support more than twenty, maybe twenty five...? So it hinges on how many men you plan to bring."

Another man Geralt didn't bother to get the name of nods, leaning over to the first man. "We could cut it to fifteen, I'm sure, and leave the carts there as well; by then we'd have unloaded-"

Geralt stops paying attention. Jaskier is on the other side of the room, leaning back and lifting his brows in that way that means he does not want to alert the room to this, but he very much wants Geralt's attention as quickly as possible.

Geralt frowns at him and lifts his eyebrows.

This is where it gets confusing, because normally there is some existing context for these exchanges. They are looking for information on something, and one of them has just gotten it and needs to tell the other. Or there is some kind of danger, and one needs to subtly alert the other to it. Tonight, though, they had nothing to do but drink ale, and Jaskier does not have the expression of a man suppressing panic. Instead he is tilting his body ever so slowly to the left, toward a group of people even further away from Geralt-

-oh.

The countess's sister - Therese? - a stunning woman who has not quite reached forty years, is looking at Jaskier over her wine glass like a benevolent predator about to strike. There's an answering flush to Jaskier's cheeks, Geralt notices now that he looks. This is an exchange they've actually had several times over the years, a 'can you leave the door unlocked', except -

There's uncertainty in Jaskier's stance, a question, something new.

Right.

This hasn't come up before.

Geralt takes a second to review his thoughts. Jaskier may have mentioned meeting this woman before, or knowing something of her. She clearly wants a night of fun, and Jaskier returns that interest, and so the only question now is with how Geralt feels about this. It feels strange, to be considered in such a way, but time is more or less of the essence on this - will he be upset if Jaskier does this? _That_ is the question, the face, the uncertainty. The new thing. Geralt takes a few moments imagining Jaskier pleasuring this woman, in some quiet niche in the castle library. He feels unperturbed.

Geralt makes a point of raising his tankard to his lips, drinking deeply, and looking around the room as if he is bored and without concern.

One of the more decorated men at the table jerks his chin at Geralt, gaining his attention for another question. Something about...?

"Say again?" Geralt asks.

The man repeats himself patiently. "Have you ever endured the winters near the peak? We're given to understand that the other mountains there don't rise quite as high, so the winds must be considerable?"

Geralt shrugs. "There's enough caves that you can do fine. Nothing bigger than bats to worry about." With a quick glance, he can check Jaskier's silhouette, see that the man is relaxed again, moving toward the woman and beginning to speak to her. They're resuming a conversation, Geralt can see now. They've probably been talking for the better part of the night. Geralt wonders if Jaskier intended to romance this woman or if her nature brought her to initiate the suggestion, but he finds he doesn't mind either way.

The generals continue their discussions. They nod approvingly when he cuts in to provide advice on camping near rivers, and then leave him to finish his meal. The music is no longer Jaskier's performance, but otherwise, there isn't anything to improve upon. He is left to his own good food and good drink. Jaskier is expected to get paid handsomely for his singing earlier. Geralt didn't have to fight anyone. When he's done, he can go back to the inn, go to sleep, and wake up whenever Jaskier comes back. He will crawl on top of Geralt like always... he will, won't he? Geralt's brows crease. He doesn't see any reason why he shouldn't. If Jaskier has some hesitation about it, Geralt will make sure to figure out a way to explain that he doesn't mind the scent of whatever woman Jaskier has visited. If Jaskier is with him at the end of the night, there's nothing to complain about.

Maybe he'll say it that way. Geralt ruminates over this as he finishes his potatoes.

**

After the night has begun to wind down, and two guests nearly come to blows over what someone's father said to someone's uncle about some farmland, Geralt decides he's had enough ale and will head back. It's nice. He doesn't have to say goodbye to anyone, simply nods and grunts to the men nearby as he rises - they grunt back - and he walks back to the inn under growing starlight, feeling content.

There is a strange tug, if he's honest. He has become so accustomed to having Jaskier nearby at every turn since they... since they started going to bed together. They haven't split apart for weeks or months as they had done before, for differing reasons every time. Jaskier's chatter and general presence has always been welcome, but now its absence seems oddly foreign to Geralt. Hm.

If it were weeks, he could see himself becoming morose. As it is, he knows that Jaskier is off enjoying himself enormously, and if the pattern holds, his other affections will diminish not a bit. Although this hasn't been tested since things have... changed... if Jaskier endured Geralt and returned to his side back when Geralt put so much energy to keeping him at bay, Jaskier will surely return even more easily now that Geralt has worked out how to handle him more gently.

The inn is crowded downstairs, noisier than the feast was. Geralt shoulders his way through the throng and up the narrow stairs, to his door. He leaves it unlocked and begins to undress.

He's got his hands on his trousers when there's a two-tap knock on the door - Jaskier - and the other man slips in, locking the door behind him and giving a nervous but friendly nod to Geralt.

Strange. Jaskier's expression is strange. His posture is strange. Geralt breathes in automatically, reaching for more information - he smells wine, perfume, the base scent of a woman, arousal. Hers? Jaskier's? Seems like both. But it's been twenty minutes at most, and he's never known Jaskier to rush so. "Jaskier?"

"Thanks," Jaskier says, scooting past him to sit on the bed. Geralt notices now that Jaskier has an unopened bottle of red that he must have swiped on his way out of the party. "For the door."

"Was that part of your pay?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier looks up and pales a little, and a second or two passes before something clicks, and - "O-oh, the wine, I, no, I just," he shrugs, face flushed in... embarrassment? "You know, it's hard to good find things... find good things... on the road. Decided to help myself."

Geralt isn't sure if something's shaken Jaskier up or if Jaskier's concerned about Geralt's feelings about the woman. "What happened?"

Jaskier begins to say something, and then something else, and then instead of speaking he looks down and starts working the bottle open as he toes his shoes off. "Just," he wrestles with the cork for a few moments before finally getting it out, and has a small sip. "You know, sometimes the connection isn't... quite... do you want some?"

Geralt doesn't, but Jaskier's offering, and Geralt doesn't want to be misinterpreted as upset. He takes the bottle and takes a pull. It's nice. Probably not going to mix well with all the ale, though, and he helped himself to more than enough of that. Geralt hands it back. "You _always_... 'connect'."

Jaskier looks even more like someone trying to play something off. "You know, I can't... I'm, I am _handsome_ , and _talented_ , and often quite charming, but I can't..."

"She rejected you?" Geralt saw her demeanor. The woman meant to devour Jaskier alive. (In the sort of way that a man enjoys.) "Jaskier, if you had to run from some jealous husband, just tell me." A beat. "I'm not upset. I'm not going to get upset." Jaskier still says nothing. Geralt fumbles for more words, things always seem to need _words_. "You _asked,_ " he adds finally.

Jaskier does not seem soothed, which is frustrating, but perhaps this means that whatever this is, it at least does not have to do with Geralt. Maybe. "I just, I got paid well, I think - did you have a good time? It looked like you were having a good time. Those guests were barely speaking to you."

"They weren't. It was nice." Geralt continues trying to fumble in the dark for the problem. "Is this you with blue balls? Do you want to-"

"Nope! _No_." Jaskier scoots a few inches away on the bed, shocking Geralt, and takes a much longer pull from the wine bottle. This is very strange. "But maybe, you know, we can just go to bed, I'm sure I'll have myself sorted out by morning. Just an odd night. Just. Odd."

Geralt decides that talking isn't working, and lets it go. He finishes undressing, and soon Jaskier follows suit, setting his lute case in its usual spot on the table, tucking his boots away, and when he's done Geralt is laid on his back on the bed. Jaskier crawls on top of him and lays down as he's always done, but it's hesitant, and Geralt feels a painful twang somewhere in his chest at this behavior. The idea of Jaskier not being comfortable with him is... unpleasant. He doesn't know what he did to cause this. He's pretty sure he _didn't_ do anything. Still, maybe he can mend it.

Blowing out the candle on the nightstand, Geralt stretches and lays an arm across Jaskier's lower back, in its usual place. Jaskier seems to relax a little. His heart beat is only slightly unsteady. After some thought, Geralt lifts his hand and slowly drifts it up and down across Jaskier's spine, in time with their breaths. It seems to work and then not work. Jaskier's holding his breath as if about to say something, but nothing comes out.

Geralt takes another deep breath. No new information. The same woman, the same him, some arousal. Mostly the woman's. Was this a - a ploy to make Geralt jealous? As with the woodcutter, months ago? "Jaskier?"

Jaskier makes a pained sound and presses his face into Geralt's pectoral, shoulders clenching.

"If you did - if you seduced that woman to, to get my attention, or-"

" _No_ ," Jaskier says impatiently, the word muffled against his skin. "Why do you talk now. Why do you _pet_ me and _talk_ to me and _ask_ why I'm _feeling_ \- you... fuck it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He seems to deflate a little. "I don't... I like all those things. I really like them."

Geralt's at a loss. "You're being confusing as shit."

Jaskier breaks out in a laugh. It's a little bitter. "I'm the worst," he says apologetically. His breath smells like that stolen wine. "I'm... I don't know what I am. I'm learning new things all the time. I don't know how I didn't realize until now, Geralt, I really don't. I'm not handling it well. I should have known months ago and it wasn't until I was halfway up her dress that..."

"You aren't making sense. Just tell me what's wrong."

"I can't. Nothing's wrong." Jaskier presses his face more determinedly into Geralt's chest, burrowing. Hiding. "I'm just a moron, and you've done nothing wrong, and I'm worrying over stupid obvious things I should've worked out ages ago. Let's go to sleep."

Geralt absorbs this, feeling Jaskier's heart rate lower and even out a little. A sort of steadiness with some self-loathing at the edges. "Sleep sounds good." He rests his arm across Jaskier's back again, feeling a large in-and-out sigh, and closes his eyes. Jaskier skips his usual squirm-until-perfectly-comfortable stage and seems to drop off almost immediately, leaving Geralt to think.

It doesn't sound like the woman did anything. Geralt didn't either. Jaskier doesn't seem to have _acted_ wrongly in any way. Whatever his realization was, Geralt doubts it's to do with the bard's baser natures. Jaskier's enthusiasm over women has never been anything less than genuine, even if he had a quieter passion for men as well. Perhaps there's some moral aspect to this, and the woman was married. Jaskier may finally have realized how disruptive it can be to step in between a husband and wife who live in the public eye, and wanted to spare Therese any kind of disruption after Jaskier left for another conquest.

That certainly makes the most sense of anything so far. And perhaps he feels embarrassed to finally realize this in front of someone who's seen him seduce so many wives before, for years on end, against Geralt's loudly voiced advice.

Something about opening up to Geralt about this seems to be displeasing to Jaskier. Words are exhausting. Geralt may just let this alone until Jaskier's ready to tell him.


	10. Yennefer

Geralt doesn't pretend to completely understand Yennefer's mind, but he has a couple theories about why she likes Jaskier now:

  1. Jaskier is a man. If Geralt had become interested in a woman after he and Yennefer separated, Yennefer would likely have ripped said woman apart with her bare hands. From across the room.
  2. Jaskier vexes Geralt. In little ways, of course; a complaint here, a request there, an unsolicited opinion several times a day. Seeing Geralt receive this treatment seems to delight her, like a harmless sort of torture for her entertainment. So be it.
  3. Now that Geralt is with Jaskier, he'll visit Yennefer, and bring Jaskier as a sort of. Buffer. The old lovers neither fall into old arguments nor drift too close to each other, risking the same mistakes made over again. And Yennefer does, Geralt thinks, _benefit_ from a friend - probably much more than she ever benefited from a headstrong, lovesick Witcher chasing after her.



Jaskier's reasons for liking Yennefer, as far as Geralt can tell, are:

  1. Yennefer no longer seems to hurt or upset Geralt.
  2. Teaming up with Yennefer on literally any subject or situation causes an inexplicable rise of dread in Geralt.



Geralt couldn't have predicted this outcome, and it's sometimes deeply concerning, but it's. Mostly good.

He also can't do anything about it.

**

They're in Yennefer's new tower when Geralt smells white phoenix tea.

He stops organizing his pack and looks up, freezing. It's - it's a distinct scent, smoke and sandalwood and something almost like duck fat, the impossibly _rare_ ingredients in it having little to no odor - and when he hears Jaskier's voice, he feels his feet moving before he can think, taking him up the stone stairs to the library.

Yennefer is seated across from Jaskier at the small table by the window, chin resting on her hand as the human takes another unknowing sip and tilts his head back and forth.

"It..." He's formulating an opinion. "It's odd that it sort of smells like food and tastes like... almost nothing? I don't mean to be rude."

"You're not," Yennefer replies breezily, looking like the cat that got the cream.

Focused on his drink, Jaskier drains the rest of the glass and he puts a finger up. "You know! _Actually_ ," And several things happen at once: Yennefer notices Geralt in the doorway, not looking nearly caught out enough, and Geralt opens his mouth to ask what Yennefer thinks she's doing, and thirdly, Jaskier, still oblivious, continues on talking and makes Geralt's face go white: "It tastes like something Geralt made for me before. Years ago. He said it was good for my constitution, I think?"

Yennefer's eyes go wide and delighted as they lock on Geralt's face. "Oh?"

"Yes, I think I pissed him off a bit when I said he couldn't even brew a decent - Geralt! Hullo! Yennefer's made me some of that tea you made me once."

"I see that," Geralt rumbles. He's torn between shouting at Yennefer and keeping this... stalemate going. Yennefer, who of course is happy to have something to hold over Geralt, doesn't seem like she's ready to reveal anything to the man.

"You've brewed this for him before, Witcher?" But of course she's going to dig a little. Of _course_.

Jaskier's nodding, smiling between the two of them. "Never had anything like it. I'm sort of surprised it took me this long to realize why it smelled so familiar. Geralt, do you want some?" He reaches for a second cup before realizing that, strangely, Yennefer only brought out the pot and one cup. "Oh..."

"It doesn't work on Witchers," Yennefer confides in a whisper.

Jaskier blinks several times. "...work?"

"Our constitution," Geralt says, trying to keep his teeth from gritting. "Is already fine."

"It's an old wives tale." Yennefer reaches across the table and pats Jaskier's hand. "That this tea will keep you young."

"Oh. Well." Jaskier seems assuaged by this, smiling awkwardly when Yennefer picks up the pot to pour him some more. "Thank you, I suppose."


	11. Songwriting

It's not that Jaskier stops talking, or that he stops singing. He still does an incredible amount of both. What Geralt notices over time is that Jaskier now talks a great deal less _about_ singing.

Geralt isn't educated in music, but he has heard enough about Jaskier's schooling and process to have a general idea. In university, Jaskier learned nearly every classic song one can learn. A few streets _down_ from the university, where the taverns were, Jaskier learned all the bawdy songs. Since then, he has been composing his own to add to his repertoire. Some are poems first, and some are _meant_ to be songs but end up remaining poems, and sometimes Jaskier just has a tune with no words, played and refined on his lute, until inspiration strikes and he comes up with the lyrics that will fit.

One of Jaskier's common topics used to be these unfinished songs. He would discuss the woman it was about, and how he was translating the more banal details of the relationship into something fit for a love song. He would discuss murkier details like slant rhyme, and meter, and how a chord change was meant to evoke this or that emotion.

(The only input Geralt would ever have in these conversations was about the ballads concerning _him_ , which inevitably became over-the-top fictions of grandeur. But after the first three or four years, Geralt stopped arguing and just let Jaskier do as he pleased.)

And Jaskier never seemed perturbed by Geralt's lack of input - in fact, it almost seemed to be a necessary part of it, as if Jaskier needed to explain his problems or ideas out loud in order to work it all out. Geralt does the same with Roach, so it has always made perfect sense.

Geralt isn't sure when Jaskier stopped bringing up his new work. At first Geralt assumed that there was a dry spell, and that there was nothing to report. (Unusual for Jaskier, who seemed to be a font of creativity, but the man is only human.) No sooner did Geralt assume that, but they stop in an inn full of bored patrons where Jaskier plays _Fishmonger's Daughter,_ and then the one about the whore who falls in love with the shipwright, and then _Elaine Ettariel_ , and then... something Geralt is completely certain he has never heard before.

It's slower - because of course it is, there is a _method_ , Jaskier has explained many times, where you sing the rowdy songs to bring the rowdy crowd to your side, to pay attention, and you calm them slowly, song by song, until you get to the maudlin ones that pull the heartstrings. The stupidest thing a performer could do is walk into a pub full of inebriated, shouting patrons and open with a sad, slow ballad about someone's dead wife. That's how you get vegetables.

So this new one is slower and more delicate than _Elaine Ettariel._ It's something new. Geralt doesn't catch it all, but it seems to be about traveling, about open fields of grain and worn dirt roads and the sun warming your skin. But it's sung so gently, sadder than those subjects would usually call for. Geralt knows that the part about being far away from civilization is probably less appealing to most of the listeners than it is to _him_ , but still. It's melancholy.

It's one of Jaskier's best yet.

The audience likes it. Jaskier has made them quiet and a little melancholy, too, but in a way that they enjoy. They tip decently, considering it's a farming village. Someone pays for a tankard of ale for him. Geralt watches as Jaskier collects his coins, thanks his admirers, and chats a little with the innkeep.

When Jaskier returns to his seat across from Geralt, Geralt realizes he feels completely stupid voicing indignation that Jaskier hasn’t told him about a song. What a foolish expectation. How would one even ask why they haven’t heard about it?

“It was good,” Geralt says instead. Broad enough to be about the last song or the performance in general.

Jaskier’s eyes fly up from his lute case, rightly surprised by the comment. Geralt usually doesn’t say _anything_ about his singing, even now. “Thank you,” Jaskier says, but he sounds a little hesitant, like maybe he knows Geralt must have noticed the new one.

Geralt has a hard enough time discussing or revealing feelings. Adding art into the mix is far beyond his pay grade. He finishes his second ale and pushes the plate with his remaining pieces of bread and chicken over to Jaskier.

**

It happens again in Tegamo. It’s not the one about traveling, it’s something else - Jaskier is singing to the listener, entreating them to lay beside him by an emerald pond. It’s full of imagery and no specifics, but it gives the idea of two lovers escaping the world and its responsibilities. 

The women in the audience seem to respond to it. Geralt sees several reach to their partners’ hands and squeeze them, like the sentiment reflected something within them.

Seeing that is extremely clarifying. Geralt doesn’t pretend to be well versed in art, but the idea of a vague, emotional song that anyone could see themselves in has several advantages over a specific song of a named person with specific appearance, specific actions. Elaine Ettariel is about Elaine. This song about rest and escapism could be for anyone.

“It’s smart,” Geralt grunts, when Jaskier comes back to the bar and grabs the ale Geralt ordered for him.

“Hm?” Jaskier looks a little uncertain.

Geralt shrugs. “Writing the song so it could be anyone. So anyone can decide it’s about them.” 

The silence stretches uncomfortably, and Geralt bristles and rolls his eyes, going back to his own tankard.

“Never mind.” There’s probably some four-syllable term for what he’s talking about, that Jaskier learned before he could shave. Now that Geralt’s been cut out of the creative process that used to happen on their long treks between towns, he feels like his effort to invite that connection back has been a show in him tripping over his own feet. If Jaskier doesn’t want to share, fine. “I don’t care what you write.”

“No, I-” Jaskier clears his throat, leaning into Geralt’s eyeline just as he turns away further. “I- I _have_ been trying a new voice, it’s, it’s different from the traditional format and I don’t know if it’s-”

“ _Forget_ it.” _Why is it a mystery now?_ he wants to say. _I don’t understand this, but it’s important to you. And I don’t know what changed._

**

That night, Geralt blows out the candle before he begins to undress, which lets them reunite on the bed in the dark. He still feels a rumbling sort of guilt about snapping, and Jaskier seems to know it, quiet and particularly tender as he slides under the bedsheets with him and throws an arm across the breadth of his chest. In the softness of the moment, Geralt almost works out what he’s feeling, what he wants to say.

How someone like Jaskier manages to talk and express himself nonstop, he’ll never know. It must be some specific sort of endurance he can’t achieve.

“Humf,” Jaskier sighs into his shoulder, burrowing a little closer and hooking one of his legs around Geralt’s.

_I’m not sure I deserve you._

That is his clearest thought yet, bright and cold like a polished weapon. Geralt sighs and strokes his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, slowly, until the other man falls asleep.

**

The next morning, Geralt figures out how to apologize. He doesn’t let Jaskier out of bed, kissing him breathless before he throws the bard’s legs over his shoulders and moves down his body. Jaskier bites his fist as Geralt presses damp fingers inside him, slowly, sucking on the head of his cock until Jaskier’s hand is gripping his hair nearly hard enough to tear it out.

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier shivers, keens, and comes in Geralt’s mouth, thick and warm spurts that Geralt swallows down. 

When Geralt climbs back up, Jaskier winds himself around him, a tangle of legs and linked ankles and warm embracing arms. Geralt isn’t giving up on figuring out how to say these things properly, but it looks like Jaskier will accept this method for now.


	12. Preferences

Geralt likes when Jaskier shows what he's learned.

**

Jaskier sidles up to Geralt at the tavern, with the slight haughtiness in his body language that means he is about to talk about someone's faults.

"That man over there," he says under his breath, low enough that another human could not hear him, "talked over half my set, which was _more_ than enough, but now that I see his fucking sword, there is _no way_ all the shit he was bragging about is true. Even ruder."

"His sword?"

"His immaculate cross-guard, which is _polished_ , by the way, the entire thing looks _brand new_ , the _chape_ is polished, the _locket_ is polished-" Jaskier tosses his head in an annoyed gesture, causing his fringe to resettle. "-none of it has a fucking scratch, I could maybe buy that he had to get a new scabbard if it wasn't a perfect match to the stone in the pommel, the entire thing is some orna- what. What is it." Jaskier's eyes are uncertain as they lock on to Geralt's, reading him. "...are you _smiling?_ "

**

Jaskier likes it when Geralt shows that he's been listening.

**

Vizima has a festival, which means lots of opportunities for entertainers. Geralt takes a contract nearby a few weeks ahead to make sure they'll be in the area at the right time.

The food is good, if a bit samey - it's all fried, and the ale is largely watered down. Jaskier practically falls into the seat next to Geralt in the feast hall, putting his lute into its case with a firm air of finality as the next performer goes up.

"Three sets in a day," Geralt comments, pushing a mug of water over. Jaskier mumbles something and takes it, downing what might be half of it in one gulp before plunking it back down on the table.

That's about the majority of what Geralt will say about Jaskier's music, and Jaskier's certainly not chatty after having sung half the day, so they sit and drink without conversation a few minutes.

Back on the platform, a young man of about twenty five years is performing a well-loved ballad about a runaway goat. He's not as good as Jaskier, but he's fine. Geralt frowns when the young man lifts his chin up as he hits a high note. A few stanzas on, another high note. He does it again.

"Hmm," Geralt comments, and lifts his ale up to his lips.

Jaskier looks over. "What?"

Geralt lifts a shoulder in a half shrug: _nothing serious_. "He's... stretching his neck up. For the high notes. That hurts his vocal chords, right?" Jaskier is just staring at him, giving him nothing. Geralt shifts in his seat. "...right? And tipping down for low-"

"Geralt, I want you to take me back to our room and fuck me _right now_."

Geralt almost drops his tankard. "Wh-" he looks from side to side, for anyone who may have overheard.

"I'm not kidding. I don't even remember when I _told_ you about that, how the fu-"

"Outside of Baldhorn! In the tavern after the drowners!"

"The harpist? That was at least _three years ago_." Jaskier's hand is on Geralt's arm guard and he _reeks_ of lust. There's no accounting for this.

Geralt gestures in exasperation. "Why wouldn't I be listening when you-"

He realizes he's talking himself out of sex. He grips the tankard handle and finishes what he paid for, one fell swoop, before grabbing Jaskier's lute case himself and getting up to get to the inn.


	13. Preferences II

Jaskier likes any and every position, at least that Geralt's been able to think of so far. He especially likes to be put on his back, perhaps held down, and fucked with enough force that he's jostled up the bed. If Geralt holds his hips and hauls him back down into the thrusts, Jaskier is even happier.

**

"Harder," Jaskier gasps, one night when the storm outside is raging, and the candlelight is illuminating his sweat.

Geralt swallows shakes his head, keeping his rhythm. Jaskier is so pliant under him, smelling of the wine they both had too much of, of sweat and dewed grass and deep lust. "Any harder and I'll hurt you." It comes out gruffer than he expected. He is so close to lost already.

Jaskier lets out a soft whine and arches his back. "Your _hands_ ," he clarifies, reaching down clumsily to put his palm over one of Geralt's, where they hold him at the hips, fingers digging into the dimples at the bottom of his spine. "I want _bruises_ , give me - please -"

Geralt _growls_ and leans down, pressing his nose under the hinge of Jaskier's jaw, scenting him as he drives in a little faster, gripping tightly. Jaskier's hips are warm and firm under his hands, muscled, with just enough give, and he continues digging his fingers in until he feels the other man's jaw flex from too much discomfort. He eases off just a touch - that's how much, he's got to be _careful_ , he could do so much damage if he gave Jaskier everything he asked for without being careful - 

" _Fuck_ you feel amazing, _yes_ -" Jaskier's spine bows out when Geralt hits a particularly good spot and Geralt adjusts his grip, searches for it again, again - "- _yes_ please, I lo- love it, fuck don't let go, I want-" Jaskier shivers, he's close, he trembles so beautifully when he's close. "-I want to see them tomorrow, _ah_ , Geralt, yes, Geralt-"

**

Geralt also likes being touched in new ways.

**

The tender things are difficult, but Geralt and Jaskier have both learned that they work best if they aren't discussed. Jaskier doesn't talk about Geralt's hair while he braids it, or ask how it feels. Jaskier just does it, and chats away, and Geralt holds still and lets his eyes drift closed and never has to put to words that it's one of his favorite things to do in the evening. Jaskier's fingertips brush against his scalp, the nape of his neck, sorting this part out from that and taking far more time than he needs to make one simple thin braid where the hair tie used to rest. Afterward, Geralt will often be particularly physical with Jaskier, sweet, almost, and that is his way of saying thank you. It's a routine now and it feels safe.

"Ugh," Jaskier says one night as they set their gear down in their room, and Geralt looks over with some concern. "I'm not _hurt_ -hurt, I'm just... something in my back aches."

Humans get hurt so much more easily, and heal so much more slowly. Geralt presses his lips into a thin line. "Show me."

Jaskier looks a little embarrassed, but then something flashes in his eyes and he looks incredibly excited. "Wait! We're... we're fucking each other!"

It takes a moment for Geralt to realize he means 'in general'. "And?"

"You could give me a _massage_." Jaskier looks overjoyed, like there's been a bag of ducats in his bag he forgot about until just now. "We could _trade_ massages. Ugh, Geralt, I'm an idiot for not thinking of this sooner."

Geralt doesn't think this is nearly as momentous on occasion as Jaskier seems to think, but he doesn't see how it would be uncomfortable, and if it makes the bard happy. "Whatever. Get naked and lay down."

Jaskier does an excited little shimmy and starts working his clothes off, rolling on top of the blankets and folding his arms under his head as he lays on his stomach. "My shoulders, and my lower back, I suppose, those are the-"

"Yes, yes," Geralt rumbles, rolling his eyes and looking through the pack for some oil. Might as well do this properly. "Planning to talk through the whole thing?"

For Geralt's benefit, Jaskier does not. Geralt gets to work out what to do in silence, taking his time with figuring out how his knowledge of muscle groups can help him do this best. He sweeps his hands over the wings of Jaskier's shoulder blades, fingers splaying and then coming back in as he drags the heels of his hands down his spine. The oil gets warm from Jaskier's skin, making it a more pleasurable experience. Geralt thinks back to the times they've had energetic sex, to how Jaskier's body reacts when it's starting to feel uncomfortable, and spends a few minutes doing the same things he did before but with a little more muscle behind it. When Jaskier lets out a little sigh and becomes noticeably more loose underneath him, there's a sense of pride in having done good work. "Good?"

"I can talk now?"

Geralt rolls his eyes and scoots back just enough to smack his arse.

"Careful, I like that."

Geralt narrows his eyes and does nothing at all.

"Alright, sorry." Jaskier laughs. He sounds pleased and calm, like he's into his second glass of a good vintage. Something in Geralt warms at that. "It's very nice. Soothing. Your hands are lovely. Do you want a turn?"

Geralt doesn't, really, but Jaskier sounds excited to do it, and there's no way Jaskier could do anything with enough strength to _hurt_ him by accident. "Sure." He gets off of Jaskier so he can roll off the bed, and strips down to lay down himself. Jaskier is tipping the bottle of oil onto both palms, rubbing them together several times.

"So it'll warm up before I touch you," Jaskier explains, seeing his confused expression.

"Hnh. Now I know." He rests his cheek on his folded hands, closing his eyes and submitting to whatever Jaskier decides to do.

Geralt ends up listening to the sound of Jaskier's palms for longer than he expects. Finally, he feels warm, familiar thighs brush against his as Jaskier straddles him, lets out a soft breath, and sets his hands underneath Geralt's shoulder blades, pushing up and in with the heels of his hands.

As Geralt predicted, Jaskier is a bit stronger than the average man who plays an instrument for a living, but that isn't quite enough to really dig in to Geralt's back. Jaskier doesn't seem to try, though, just pressing and stroking, then leaning in with his shoulders as he rubs up and down, outward from the spine, fingers finally curling around shoulders and getting handfuls of muscle to stroke in slow breaths.

It's... nice. Geralt realizes he had expected a fussy sort of battle of strength between his back and Jaskier's hands, but it's soothing instead. Gentle. Coaxing. With his eyes closed like this, Geralt can focus in on little details - the sounds of Jaskier's steady breathing, his heartbeat, the feeling of the hairs of his legs brushing against his own when he scoots up or down. Jaskier's callouses press in just enough to scratch pleasantly down the ridges of his spine, drawing a pleased rumble out of him without warning.

"Good," Jaskier murmurs, perhaps just to himself. Geralt feels him curl his hands into loose fists at the small of his back, feels him lean in and push the ridges of his knuckles slowly upwards, over his ribs, to the beginning of his shoulders. Pulls them back down again lighter, without pressing. 

Minutes pass without Geralt fully realizing. He only fully comes back to focusing on the now when Jaskier's hands pull away, but then it's the soft glug of the bottle of oil, and Jaskier is rubbing his hands together again.

"Your skin doesn't feel dry, but it certainly ate all of the first batch up." Jaskier's voice sounds soft and warm and fond. His voice is almost always a pleasant thing, but now it has something new to it that Geralt greatly likes.

"I'll buy us more," Geralt rumbles into his forearm. He hears Jaskier laugh. He pushes himself a little, reminding himself it hasn't gone unappreciated once yet: "...you were right. This is good."

He expects Jaskier to say something, with that high tone that means he's a little surprised but happily so. Instead, he feels Jaskier move up a little on his body, palms on Geralt's back, his soft cock nestled against the swell of Geralt's ass - Jaskier leans down and kisses Geralt's ear, gentle as can be, before pushing himself up and getting back to work. Geralt feels a now-familiar swelling feeling in his chest, and his muscles seem to give even more to the gentle touches, like willow branches rustling to a breeze.

Another minute passes. Geralt isn't sure if he spent this long on Jaskier's back, but he doesn't want his turn to end yet. Jaskier starts working more specifically, knuckles working slowly but deeply into his right shoulder, his upper bicep - Geralt's sword arm. Jaskier still isn't particularly strong, but he's _focused_ , patient, working his thumb in deeply and circling around knots before easing them from the outside in.

Geralt can feel Jaskier's palms planted on his back again - Jaskier is scooting back down, working his lower back now, his tailbone, and then - "Can I?"

Confusing. "Can you what?"

"I'm sure it'll be more for me than for you, but it's lovely." Jaskier only sounds a little mischievous, more just warm and soft, that voice that he can't know is so calming to him. His hands are drifting over Geralt's arse, waiting.

Geralt's immediate thought is 'no', but when he interrogates this, he can't figure out why. "As long as you aren't ridiculous about it," he says finally, voice huskier than expected. Jaskier doesn't crow or tease, just makes an acknowledging sound and sweeps the heels of his hands around Geralt's hips, lower, grabbing him in handfuls and kneading the flesh gently, the muscle underneath, and it feels exactly as silly as Geralt thought it would until it... doesn't anymore. 

This is muscle too. Lots of it. And Jaskier's treating it as such, working it in firm grips, pressing and dragging rows of knuckles across, only giving what can only be self-indulgent soft pinches every now and again. Geralt burrs at one, a warning without ire behind it. "Sorry," Jaskier admits.

Geralt can't find himself to really be upset. "The way you fawn after it, I'm surprised you're the type to be on your back." He lets out a sigh as Jaskier's fingertips splay and drag down his back again, a second apology.

"Well," Jaskier says, and the tone of it makes Geralt's ears perk, a sort of alarm bell sound in his mind. Does Jaskier normally not... get fucked, when he's with men? No, he'd alluded before that he was out of practice, with the strong implication that that is what he'd done before with men.

At least, _some_ of the time. It's not unusual for some men to go back and forth, depending on mood or partner.

Geralt doesn't know why he's so unnerved. Another foolish knee-jerk reaction - if Jaskier _does_ enjoy such things, Geralt simply saying he wouldn't participate would be sufficient to end the conversation.

So, with that the case, he can be curious. "Have you...?"

Geralt can't smell self-consciousness on Jaskier, but he can feel the way his body shifts from side to side. "Well, yes," Jaskier says, and seems to have seen Geralt's knee-jerk resistance coming a mile away, because he adds, "and while that's lovely, I don't, um, I don't want you to think that I'm not very happy with our current arrangement."

And that does sound very earnest, which is... good. Geralt has started to admit, if only privately in his own thoughts, that he very much wants Jaskier to be content with and satisfied by him, even if he doesn't always understand how to do it, or why some things work and others don't.

"Um." Jaskier's hand slides slick over Geralt's ass, pressing lightly. "Although, if you're open to some thoughts, I _have_ given some thought to..."

To what? Geralt waits, but nothing comes, and it's as if Jaskier is asking for permission to even continue asking. "To what?" he leads, because even if he says no, Jaskier will still be happy. He said as much. Maybe it will be something easy. It often is.

"Well, both because you have a _gorgeous_ behind and because I happen to know from, um, from previous experience that it's a very lovely feeling to receive..." Jaskier moves just the slightest bit down, hands warm and slick and gentle as they palm his ass, separating the cheeks just the tiniest bit. "...if you were to let me use my _mouth_ , there would be no discomfort, and still quite a lot to enjoy? I've, um," Jaskier is, Geralt realizes, actually quite nervous. "I've gotten a lot of compliments."

Geralt's brows come together. That - that isn't what he expected, and he can feel his body bristling a little, on the defense yet again for a reason he can't pin down. Geralt stews for a moment, trying to work out if he wants to indulge this request, or say no, and risk Jaskier feeling like he shouldn't ask for things.

He does _want_ Jaskier to ask for things. Jaskier is happy to whine for nicer accommodations, or a resting break, or indeed many things, but. Sometimes Geralt stands close to him when they're in the wilderness, nose to his pulse-point and just taking a moment to breathe him in, and Jaskier sighs and melts toward him like he had been famished for such a thing for hours. Some things he doesn't ask for. Yet.

"You can say no," Jaskier says, hands planted on his lower back now. A position from which to slide off the bed, if the massage is done, if this is concluded. Geralt's nostrils flare a little and he makes an ambiguous grunt.

"For one minute," he murmurs. "If I don't like it, I'll have tried it."

Jaskier's heart-rate and lust immediately arc upwards. "You mean it?"

Geralt pushes his shoulder blades up, a shrug. "The massage was nice." _So, maybe this will be, too_. He doesn't feel ready to say that it might be something other than pleasant, but judging from the way Jaskier's cock is already thick and hot against Geralt's thigh, that's on the bard's mind at least.

"Yes, it - of course. Yes." Jaskier starts shimmying down, gently easing Geralt's thighs apart a bit so he can kneel between his shins. Finally seeming to decide the position won't work well, Jaskier taps Geralt's hip, indicating for him to get up on his knees - _this_ feels discomforting, makes his lip curl a little as he rolls his eyes, but at least he can make all the faces he likes while Jaskier gets to do something that got him hard so quickly. Knees tucked under his chest, he waits as Jaskier resettles, massages his ass and separates it, and already feels a little like this will be a minute of enduring something he doesn't care for.

It's fine that Jaskier likes being spread open, being held down or held up or taken. Geralt doesn't like imagining himself in the same way and it's a sharper feeling than the others had been, harder to ruminate on.

Jaskier's lips are warm and soft on the cleft of his arse, then his inner thigh. When Jaskier's tongue licks roughly, when he grazes his teeth, starts a love bite, there's a vulnerability to that softer skin and Geralt feels his slow heart beat faster. He's still not sure if he likes this. Jaskier's hands are firm on his muscles, spreading the oil along his flanks, thumbs sweeping back and forth in a slow metronome. When Jaskier lets go and licks over the spot, it feels tender, reddened.

Geralt takes a deep breath in through his nose. He's immediately overwhelmed by the smell of Jaskier's arousal, and it's almost impossible not to have a visceral reaction to that, now. It smells like every night they've spent together, and Jaskier's mouth, it _is_ familiar as well, just... not where it is right now. Jaskier's tongue is slick and clever, circling around Geralt's entrance now, thumbs pressing him apart and making him feel strangely more exposed than anything else.

"Nn?" Jaskier asks, the vibration traveling just the tiniest bit through his tongue to the sensitive ring of muscle. Geralt tenses, still trying to suss out how this feels.

"Hasn't... been a minute yet," he rumbles, not sure what else to say yet.

Jaskier seems to redouble his efforts, like he's now worried that he has to sell Geralt on this before his time is up. The flat of his tongue draws slowly over Geralt's hole, curling in just so slightly, and he does it again, again, until Geralt feels his cock twitch and begin to swell, hanging between his thighs and almost brushing the sheets. Geralt curses mentally. Jaskier seems to have worked out that these rough touches go over better, because he's doing nothing else now, gripping his ass firmly as he laves back and forth, never trying to push in, just stimulating and nudging and soothing until Geralt's breath is coming faster.

It's definitely been over a minute. Geralt says nothing, trying to breathe quieter, drowning in the sweet smell of Jaskier's desire, feeling the tip of his tongue trace around his entrance, again, dipping in the slightest bit before Geralt starts to feel any kind of stretch. _Fuck_.

It's a tease now. He didn't realize this part of him would respond like this, could. Jaskier's calloused thumbs are achingly close and he wonders if they would give some satisfaction, just pressing or caressing, feeling his face burn as he imagines it.

Jaskier pulls back and pants for a moment, breaths hot against Geralt's inner thighs, against the saliva Jaskier's left there. He can feel precome starting to well at the tip of his unattended cock. Geralt can't stop the frustrated growl that comes from his chest, feeling like he rattles the bed with it. Jaskier moves behind him in response.

"Can-" Jaskier sounds debauched, out of breath. "Can I-?"

"I'll let you," Geralt mutters. He hopes it sounds less desperate than he feels.

Jaskier seems fooled enough, bending back down and nuzzling the cleft, tongue seeking him out again and beginning to press in, _yes_ , it's foreign and shocking and just right at the same time, this soft warm intrusion, deeper and then out and then flickering in and out, quickly, the tight ring of muscle on fire somehow now from getting so much, not enough, the fire stoked throughout his whole body. Is this something like how Jaskier feels when Geralt's got his fingers in him?

What would Jaskier's fingers feel like?

No. Definitely not. Not tonight. Geralt cants his hips up a little, trying to find an angle where Jaskier's tongue can go more deeply. He feels the moan more than hears it, feels Jaskier's hands disappear a moment to wipe on the bed, and when they come back they grip him tighter, pull him apart further, _so much more exposed,_ but now Jaskier's mouth is on him completely, lips brushing against his hole, tongue thick and wet and _fucking_ into him in a slow rhythm, curling and easing him open further, he can feel every minute thing and his cock is dripping onto the bed, now, the salty heat mingling with Jaskier's arousal in the air, and Geralt is outright panting now. He's always known the importance of not rushing someone to open up, woman or man, but now he _feels_ what that means, to be opened gently, to be coaxed, to not get more until you're wanting it badly. Jaskier's fingers adjust their grip and for a moment Geralt wonders if he's about to touch him there, but - no. Fuck, fuck.

Jaskier pulls back after another agonizing minute, catching his breath again, and now his thumb _does_ move in, brushing gently - "I'm not going in, I promise," he breathes, and Geralt finds himself disappointed. It feels solid, warm, _thicker_ , like it might satisfy the strange desire Jaskier has drawn out of him. Geralt tosses his head not a little angrily to get the hair out of his damned face, the sweat it's sticking with an irritating tell he doesn't care for. Jaskier stops behind him. "--oh?"

Geralt says nothing, not brave enough yet. The pad of Jaskier's thumb continues to drift over his entrance, up and down, finally pressing and stroking and making Geralt keen quietly into his forearm.

Jaskier stops, which is a deeply embarrassing few seconds, but then by some god's grace he goes back to what he was doing, tongue fucking into him slowly, deep, thumbs now just _barely_ brushing the sensitized skin around his entrance. Jaskier takes another break, panting heavily, stroking his thumb back and forth in a maddening way that finally has Geralt reaching down to take himself in hand. He can smell Jaskier's seed, too, and tries to take some solace in the fact that he's not the only one in this condition.

"Can," Jaskier pants, voice husky and deep. "Would you let me... _fuck_ Geralt, you have no idea how you look right now." Geralt bristles immediately, not wanting to imagine it at all, feels his shoulders tense and draw upwards, and Jaskier makes a regretful noise, pad of his thumb rocking back and forth over Geralt's hole until he lets out a broken moan. "You look _gorgeous_ , I can't believe - fuck, darling, I'm going to come, will you please let me do it up against you, I, are you close too, please-"

Geralt's hand is already slick with his own precome, more dripping past his grip and onto the ruined sheets. He doesn't know how to say yes. " _Jaskier_ ," he breathes instead, low and soft, groaning when he feels Jaskier move up the bed, feels what must be the soft-hard, blunt head of Jaskier's cock dragging hot and dripping against his cleft, nudging his hole but not pressing in, _not_ stretching, _not_ hurting, just close and slick and shifting as Jaskier strokes himself off in rough movements, sounding so wrecked, Geralt's hand matches his pace and he's not sure who comes first, it all feels heightened and incredible; he can feel his body trembling with it, can smell their scents fully mingled in the air thick and heady, feels the warm spurts of Jaskier's come against sensitized skin, more and more still, Geralt getting pressed into his own streaks of come when Jaskier whimpers and falls forward into him, pushing him flat.

Geralt tips them both to the side, rolling Jaskier safely toward the side with the wall, so he can get his hand out from underneath himself. His hip is sticky now in his own mess, but he can rearrange himself now, turn toward Jaskier and drag the smaller man against his chest as he feels him pant and gasp for air.

This goes on for some time. Geralt focuses on the feeling of Jaskier's ribs expanding and contracting against his, the overheated pleasure of his skin, his hair close enough to breathe in and nuzzle slightly. "Going to recover?" Geralt asks after a while, nosing his ear.

Jaskier huffs out a laugh and tilts his head back, fitting it into the curve of Geralt's shoulder. Something in his chest feels... he's not sure. "That was... thank you, that was _so_ lovely, I really... um, you could probably tell, that I. Enjoyed it."

Geralt should probably say thank you and admit his enjoyment, but he sees a clear opening to not do so, and it's too tempting. He replays the last few moments in his mind, the hammering beats of Jaskier's heart, the feel of his cockhead so pleasant against his skin, his voice thick- "'Darling'?" he parrots, realizing suddenly.

Jaskier squirms. "I didn't _mean_ to."

Geralt wrinkles his nose and doesn't move yet, knowing Jaskier's familiar movements of wanting to be let go, to begin to clean up before reuniting again for sleep. What a ridiculous word for him. "Never when others are around."

"Wh-what?"

"Never when others around," Geralt repeats, and rolls onto his back, feeling his come stick to his lower back now as he makes room for Jaskier to get up and get to the wash basin. For some reason, the mess on his inner thighs doesn't bother him at all. "Ever."

Jaskier stops frozen like one of those moments in the beginning, when Geralt would say something new and shocking and Jaskier wasn't a good enough actor to play it off. He stares at Geralt a few moments, disbelieving and then calculating, surmising, and then he is sprawled over him, crawling off the bed, a mess of limbs making it to the floor and across the rooms to the basin. "I, um," he's trying to figure out what to say, knowing Geralt doesn't want that interrogated.

"Do you still want to stop in Red Port tomorrow night?" Geralt watches him as he starts to soak the rag and wipe himself down, coming over with it to clean Geralt, assess the damage of the top quilt. They'll definitely have to fold it up and leave it on the floor.

"Um. You said the weather looks like it will be good tomorrow, so." He shrugs, hands tender on Geralt, staying close when he gets up to get rid of the quilt. "We can camp instead if you're sure we won't get rained on."

Geralt grunts an acknowledgment. "I know you hate that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's comments have been so lovely and encouraging! Hope you enjoyed.


	14. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, babes <3

Getting patched up has become a much easier and more soothing process; now that Geralt's learned to let himself submit to it, he wouldn't want to go back.

"Arm back down," Jaskier says behind him, and so Geralt rests his left arm back on the edge of the tub.

Behind him, Jaskier is rolling up the gauze, putting it in the kit and shutting it. Geralt, enveloped in warm water, looks over his body - Jaskier's handiwork is getting better all the time. Geralt tilts his ankle back and forth on the far edge of the tub, admiring the neat wrapping.

"Is it slipping?" Jaskier must have noticed.

"No." Geralt thinks, listens to Jaskier rummage for the comb. He should say more. "It's good."

There's a pregnant silence as Jaskier digests the compliment. "I'm glad," the other man says finally, sounding warm. Geralt feels gentle fingertips at the crown of his head, nudging until Geralt tilts his head back. The wide-toothed wooden comb starts light at at the bottom of his hair, in short strokes, climbing up until it's scratching pleasantly against his scalp. His ankle is a dull burn and the throbbing in his arm is starting to fade as well. The water is helping. The touches are helping. "You were right to stay up here for my performance, by the way. Nobody knew who I was and they were too drunk to care about anything but the bawdy ones."

"Half the ones you do are 'the bawdy ones'," Geralt points out behind a small smile. Jaskier slides the comb in front of the curtain of damp hair to scrape the comb teeth lightly at the nape of Geralt's neck, light and slow and repeating, and he realizes that it's just. Being done for his enjoyment, not even to fix his hair. He's not sure how to feel about this.

"Yes, well, they should like _all_ my songs." Jaskier sounds slightly petulant. "Some of my best ones are the ballads..."

"Did you sing the one about how love is like a pear?"

"That one's not finished. I actually may end up keeping it as a poem..." Jaskier leans forward a little. His breath smells pleasant, like the caraway from dinner downstairs. He sets the comb aside with a click and gathers two sections of hair from in front of Geralt's ears, bringing them back and plaiting them neatly into the center. Geralt concentrates on the occasional brushes of Jaskier's knuckles against his neck. "Doing alright?"

"Hm?"

"That kiki thing nearly got you to the bone, on your arm. Are you doing alright?"

Geralt lets out a rumbling breath, relaxed. "Barely feel it."

**

Geralt whips his blade across the last wolf's throat and drops his weapon immediately, running over to Jaskier.

"Geralt," Jaskier is saying, trying to sit up and failing. He's smiling but it's horrible, blood dripping from the side of his mouth, _no_ \- "did you see?"

In the moonlight, the man already looks pale as alabaster. Geralt's hands fly over his torn doublet, the gouges, pulsing with fresh blood and v-

and viscera -

and making Geralt's slow heart thrash and pound in his chest. "Don't try to talk," he rasps.

"I killed one. I got-" Jaskier coughs. Geralt closes his hands around his shoulders and leans him back onto the ground. "-one. One's good. For an Oxen... Oxenfurt boy."

Geralt makes himself stand back up. Roach was startled by the ambush, but hasn't gone far. He doesn't bother with her reigns, going straight to the saddle bag with his potions and digging through it. He has two. He know he has two. He'll get both.

When he comes back to Jaskier he's blinking slowly and frowning. "My arm hurts," Jaskier says, sounding worried. "Nothing ever hurts _you_ like this."

He's lost a lot of blood already. Geralt takes the cork in his teeth and pulls it out of the first bottle, hauling Jaskier back up with his other hand and holding the bottle to his lips. He's surprised when Jaskier's eyes widen and he begins to weakly struggle away. "Jaskier," he barks, desperate.

"M'not a W... a _Witcher,_ " Jaskier says, blearily staring at the little bottle with deep concern. "It'll... poison?"

"This one's for humans," Geralt enunciates slowly. He can't afford for Jaskier to resist more and spill any of this, he could barely afford either of these. "Please drink it. Jaskier?"

Jaskier seems distracted, confused already, but trusting enough. The scent of his blood everywhere is cloying and awful. Geralt holds the bottle to Jaskier's lips again, tilts it, watches the other man drink obediently and then shiver almost before he's done swallowing.

"Please don't spit it up."

Jaskier is staring down at the ground, as if digesting something very difficult. "Won't," he mumbles. He's dead weight in Geralt's arms, still, one arm completely limp at his side.

The mage said it wouldn't be instantaneous. Wouldn't be like the things that work for mutated bodies like his. Geralt stares as Jaskier takes breath after next, as he blinks, as the pain around his eyes and mouth intensifies. It's hard to tell if his gut wound is closing yet, and Geralt realizes he is afraid to touch it. Afraid to look again. "Are you with me?" Geralt asks.

"My arm _really_ hurts," Jaskier whispers. Geralt realizes with alarm that there's moisture at the rims of the other man's eyes. "Should... should you clean... and wrap...?" His eyes are slightly unfocused when he looks up at Geralt. "Is there no time?"

Geralt doesn't understand what that means until he feels Jaskier's good hand, clammy, fumbling for his. The alarm in him raises even higher. "No," he says, and tosses the empty bottle aside so he can grab the second one. In severe emergencies, the mage had said. If the first one isn't sufficient. "You have to- Jaskier, stay awake. You need to drink again."

Jaskier's voice is small, wavering. "I wanted more time."

" _Jaskier_." Geralt shakes him with one arm, holding the bottle to his lips, vision strangely blurred as he struggles to get himself under control. "Drink. Do you hear me?"

Jaskier makes a soft hum of assent, and when Geralt tips the bottle, Jaskier drinks again. He's not looking at Geralt anymore, more unfocused and somehow paler still. Geralt lays him down and struggles to open his doublet, to push his chemise up, now more desperate to see some kind of change than he is reluctant to see the wound. His fingertips trace over the perimeter. First rib, muscle, flesh, several inches down and in. Pulsing reds. Did he see more gore before, or is it just clearer now how much of it is smeared blood against pink flesh? "You're hurting," Jaskier says, barely enunciating, and Geralt's hands snap back as if burned.

"Are they working?" Geralt knows that one of the emotions he was trained to tamp down was desperation, but he feels it now, knows that's what it must be. "Does your stomach still hurt?"

Jaskier's brows come together. "My _arm_ hurts. My stomach's just..." He coughs. "Cold." He takes a stuttering half-breath. "I'm tired."

"No. _No_." He gathers Jaskier back up. He can feel Jaskier's forehead against his lips, Jaskier's cheek, his cheek again, he is moving without thinking. "Jaskier, stay awake. You just need to hold on long enough for it to fix this."

Jaskier makes an impatient sound. He doesn't sound like himself. He sounds far away. "Let's just lie down."

"Jaskier. Jaskier." Geralt uses his free hand to cup his face, smearing more blood from his glove across the bard's jawline, neck. "Please? Please stay awake with me?"

His smile is weak, lilting. "... you never used. To say that."

Whatever keeps him focused. Geralt feels like he wants to climb into the other man's body and fix it himself, somehow, share his blood and his heartbeat until the little bard can manage on his own. "Please," he says again, roughly. "Please. Please stay awake."

"With you," Jaskier finishes, taking in a rattling breath and leaning his body a little further into Geralt's. "Right?"

"Yes, with me." Geralt realizes he is holding Jaskier across the shoulders tightly enough to seriously injure him and readjusts, tucking his head under his chin and squeezing his hands in slow beats. "Just keep talking to me. Tell me how you feel."

Jaskier is quiet for a while. Too long. "Like I had..." A long pause. "...something funny."

"Like you drank? Something funny?"

"Yeah." Jaskier's voice is softer still, barely a breath. "Like champagne bubbles under my skin."

"Champagne bubbles." Geralt doesn't know what to do but echo him.

"Champagne's lovely." Jaskier almost sounds like he's dreaming.

"Then we'll get you some," Geralt says, ferociously sure of it now. "And anything else you want. Steak. Dumplings."

"Cabbage rolls," Jaskier adds wistfully.

"Yes." Geralt presses his lips to the crown of Jaskier's head again. "As much as you like."

"It's working," Jaskier tells him.

"What?"

Jaskier gives two soft exhales that are almost a laugh, fingers weaving between Geralt's. "My stomach's not cold anymore."

"It's not?"

"Hurts like _fuck_."

"Just stay with me for it. Stay awake." Geralt repositions Jaskier in his lap, turning him around so he can see the wound. There's thin white bark at the edges of the gash, now, like fingernails, slowly growing inwards as if they mean to meet each other in the center. It's taking so long. Blood is welling out of it at the edges.

"It hurts so _much_ ," Jaskier confides, and to Geralt's terror the other man is sniffling.

"It's working. You're going to be alright." Geralt grips him. "I'm going to take you back to the inn and wrap you up and. And lay on the floor, you can have the bed all to yourself."

"No," Jaskier groans.

"Whatever you want." The crown of Jaskier's head is wet when he presses his lips to it, tastes like salt. "Does your arm feel better?"

"Wanna lay on top of you," Jaskier says, slurring, as if Geralt hadn't asked anything. "I don't want that to change."

"Fine, yes." Geralt strokes his hair and keeps his eye on the bark, almost meeting in the middle now, each edge saturated in ripe red blood. "Wherever you like. However you like."

"I wanted more time," Jaskier says again, to himself now. Something about those words is unbearable.

"Don't say that."

"I did." Jaskier seems to take great effort into turning his face into Geralt's armor, breathing unevenly. "I wanted more adventures. With you."

"You _will_ , you'll have everything you want." Geralt watches the bark unify, begin to thicken, painfully slowly, gods, this can't possibly mean to take this long. "You're not bleeding anymore, Jaskier. Jaskier?"

"Mm."

"You're not bleeding anymore. Your wound's closed. You're getting better."

"Huh?"

Jaskier can't hear him or can't understand him. Geralt sits up straighter, free hand flying over Jaskier's ears to make sure there's no injury - he tips Jaskier's face up to see his, takes in the redness of his eyes, the bleariness, and then the surprise. "Jaskier?"

Jaskier doesn't answer, pulling his good hand between them and struggling to bring it up more than a few inches at a time.

"Jaskier, say something."

Jaskier's hand comes between their faces and his fingertips brush, gently, at Geralt's right cheek. It's sliding against wetness. Tears.

"Jaskier."

"Julian."

"What?"

"Just in case."

Geralt stares at him, uncomprehending. The bard smiles, blood across his teeth, at the same moment that the bark on his stomach begins to crackle and stiffen. Jaskier grimaces, hand dropping between them as Geralt lays him back down so he isn't bent over the bark. Jaskier takes a shallow breath that makes his chest and stomach rise, the bark with it, another breath, and with a third, an effort for a real lungful of air. The bark crumbles suddenly, as if it were dry rot, tumbling off of Jaskier's bare stomach to reveal bone-white fresh skin, fragile and new, almost blue from the veins underneath the shallow surface.

"Feels... odd," Jaskier chokes out, looking like he might be ill.

Geralt brushes his cheek against his. "You're almost there. I promise. The magic's working. I know it hurts. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Jaskier, I should've..." He wipes at his face. "I should've done more."

"No," Jaskier says, and his tone makes his meaning clear. _Don't do that_. "No." He becomes distracted again, grimacing at his arm without moving his head.

"What is it? What do you feel?"

"Something itches. ...I don't know." He sounds a little stronger, though, like he's more present. "Fuck. Geralt."

"Jaskier?"

"T..." Jaskier's hand is unsteady as it comes to his own mouth, still weak. A faint scent of bile. "Turn me on my side."

Geralt does, and almost immediately Jaskier begins to vomit blood. It's blood at first, and then it's something like clotted blood, and then, as Jaskier gasps for breath and gets the strength to push himself up on his own hands and knees, it's blood-soaked flower buds, tiny soft rubies with pink tips just beginning to curl open. Jaskier wheezes, tipping back onto his side away from Geralt and the mess, sounding exhausted but lungs working with good vigor to bring air back into his lungs, to cough up the last of what's disturbing him, and as Geralt watches in fascination and horror, Jaskier's wheezing dies down into regular, slow breaths, and the buds on the ground slowly bloom.

Geralt stares at them. They are bright and almost luminescent in the dark, and almost as soon as they're completed blooming, the petals curl backward, paling, shriveling, until they're little more than dust in a mess of coagulated viscera. Geralt looks back to Jaskier. He is still collecting himself as he stares up at the sky.

"Jaskier."

"Present," Jaskier says, eyes locked upward, looking a little scared.

Geralt leans over the blood, touching Jaskier's good arm hesitantly. "Are you well? Is it over?"

"I was hoping you could. Tell _me_." Jaskier seems to give himself a moment before using his left hand to reach over and feel his right arm - Geralt hears, under the chemise, the sound of more bark crumbling into nothing. Jaskier frowns and then lowers his fingertips to his stomach, flinching a little bit as he touches his own new skin. "Am I? A mutant now?"

" _No_ ," Geralt says, almost relieved for such a silly question. "That's just. Magic that heals humans."

"It's awful," Jaskier mumbles.

"And rare, and expensive," Geralt says unthinkingly. "If it were easy or pleasant everyone would know about... or have... don't sit up."

"I can," Jaskier argues, pushing himself up on wobbling arms and looking around. He makes a face at the mess between them, nose wrinkling. "Did the magic... decide I didn't need any of that? Some of that looks important."

He almost sounds like himself again. Geralt can feel his own heart start to calm. "Do you think you could ride?"

Jaskier considers it, then bites his lip. "I... not yet. But. I'm loads better than I was a minute ago, so ask again soon." He seems almost as shocked as Geralt by how quickly he's recovered, crossing his legs and starting to pat over himself a little more. When he gets to the rip in his chemise, he sighs.

"I'll get you a new one," Geralt assures him, almost automatically.

Jaskier doesn't seem to quite hear it. "I... I feel very tired," he says finally.

"I can take you back to the inn. I could ride behind you on Roach. Or I could carry you."

"Roach, you hear him looping you into this?" Jaskier gives a weak laugh as Roach plods over at the sound of her name, pushing her nose against his face. "Ah. Okay, okay. If you volunteer yourself, I'll take you up on it. Town's not far, you won't have to carry us both for... for long."

**

It wouldn't be long, except that Geralt insists on taking the road as gently as possible, and Roach won't listen to Jaskier's insistence that she can take it past a walk if she likes. A five minute trip takes twenty. Geralt helps him off of her, doesn't let him touch the ground, and carries him through the inn and up the stairs and into the room.

"Finally," Jaskier sighs. He sounds tired again, like he's been awake for days. Geralt adjusts the man in his arms, making sure he's laid down gently on the blankets. "You're not doing the floor thing, surely?"

Geralt's hands are on his armor straps, yanking it open. "I need to get some of this-"

"Please, just come." Jaskier rolls messily onto his side, to the wall, making room for Geralt to lay down.

Geralt looks at the man on the bed, blood-smeared and limp. His tired blue eyes are on Geralt, soft, trusting. Geralt swallows and hauls the chest piece off, sits and kicks his boots off, and lays down on his back. Jaskier pushes himself up just enough that he can crawl on top, chest to chest, face pressed into Geralt's shoulder, like always. Geralt thinks of Jaskier's gut wound. "Doesn't this hurt?"

"Like an absolute bastard," Jaskier mumbles, and clearly has no intention of moving. His arms are flung akimbo on either side of Geralt, and when the larger man finally relents and brings his hands to rest on the small of Jaskier's back, where they often end up in sleep, Jaskier lets out a deep, world-weary sigh.

Geralt tries to think of what to say. It doesn't seem like Jaskier wants him to say anything in particular, but there's... something about what just happened, what almost happened, the whole feeling of it and the rumbling still in his heart that feels like one of the things Jaskier always wishes he would put to words. "Jaskier," he tries.

"Mm." Jaskier sounds tired, a little in pain, a little satisfied. Like getting exactly what he wanted, even if it were as simple as surviving, and lying on top of him in a cheap inn, is enough to be a success tonight.

Geralt had sort of hoped that Jaskier might say something to spark whatever it is Geralt is meant to say. Jaskier's rambling often includes helpful prompts.

"Mm?" Jaskier prompts after some silence. Not as helpful as it could have been. Geralt's fingers fret over Jaskier's lower back, up to his ribs, where the slow rise and fall of his breaths is steady, now, soothing.

Maybe it's just that. Geralt gives his back a gentle tap, just enough to be felt, and Jaskier lifts his head to look up at Geralt to see what it is. Geralt closes his eyes and presses his mouth to Jaskier's, gently.

Jaskier goes completely still on top of him. Geralt doesn't know why this particular kiss felt so different to initiate, why Jaskier seems to sense its importance so immediately. Geralt almost wants to pull away, but Jaskier's lips are soft against his, unmoving at first, then tender and slow as the bard's hands come up and cup Geralt's face. Geralt kisses back, feeling thumbs brushing against his cheeks. They were wet before. He barely noticed or understood why in the moment. Geralt holds Jaskier tighter at the waist, trying to work out what this is, why it's making him afraid.

Jaskier breaks away first. "Let's talk about it in the morning." His voice is low and gentle. His nose brushes against Geralt's cheek, his jawline, as he lays himself carefully back down on top of Geralt.

Geralt doesn't know how to respond. What it is they've done, what they're talking about. His heart is racing again and the fear has been replaced by confusion. Tonight has been exhausting and the feeling of Jaskier pressing down on him, the familiar scents in his nose - there's no way he's going to work out whatever the fuck is going on. Maybe the potion had side effects.

It'll be clearer in the morning.


	15. Songwriting II

Geralt wakes up alone in the bed. He frowns and opens his eyes to early morning light, realizing that there's rustling sounds across the room.

He turns his head and sees Jaskier halted over his pack, looking caught and apologetic. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I was trying to be quiet."

The events of last night are seeping back into Geralt's consciousness, making a wave of fear and tension rise up in his throat. "What're you doing?"

"I'm famished." He looks down into the bag and finishes pulling out a square of dry rations, wrapped in a cloth. They usually only eat them when they're on the road and have nothing else. "Didn't want to wake you up by going downstairs."

Jaskier hates those dry things. Geralt pushes himself up on his arms, looking the other man over. Jaskier is only in his small clothes. His expression and posture reveal none of the agony of his previous injuries, but his right bicep and his lower torso both have large, irregularly shaped patches of skin that are the color of fresh linens. "We'll get you proper food," Geralt rumbles, suddenly remembering his promises of last night. Dumplings. Cabbage rolls. _Whatever you want_.

Jaskier lights up instantly. He uses words like 'starving' and 'famished' very easily, but on this occasion it seems like he really is beyond simply hungry. Geralt begins getting dressed and watches Jaskier as he does as well, frowning when Jaskier grimaces a bit to pull a fresh chemise over his head.

"Tell me how you're feeling."

"Just _achy_ ," Jaskier complains, a little frustrated by it, but he comes over, taking Geralt's hand in his and leading it to the patch on his arm, his stomach. Reassuring him, Geralt realizes, that they are no longer sensitive to the touch, that the flesh there is whole. "I sat on the floor and poked at myself for five good minutes before I started foraging." A beat. "That, um, those potions."

"I didn't know they'd hurt you like that." Geralt's lip curls a touch, angry at himself.

"Most of _your_ healing potions hurt," Jaskier reasons aloud. "The ones you pour on wounds burn. The ones you drink make you look like-"

"You're _human_ ," Geralt says, snapping more than he meant to. "Things meant for you shouldn't. Make you suffer like that."

Geralt's keeping his eyes on the pale skin, the pulse he can feel underneath it, but he can see Jaskier's face in his peripheral vision, looking at him. Reading him. "I'd much rather have had it than not," Jaskier says finally. "You said last night... they were rare? Expensive?" He sees Geralt flinch a little. "It didn't come off like you were expecting me to be in _debt_ for it, I just. Was curious."

Something about the healing potions is too close to the white phoenix tea, and the memory of the tea has made him bristle ever since he realized Yennefer _also_ left him for magic choices he made without consulting or telling her. "The mage trader, when we were traveling through the mountains a few months ago."

The corner of Jaskier's mouth turns up, squeezing Geralt's hand on his stomach. "Wanted to keep your... new bedmate in good condition, I suppose?"

There's something inviting about the way Jaskier says it, and Geralt's reminded of the woodsmoke and tension of the first time he mended Jaskier's clothes. Feels himself draw inwards. "Let's wash up. You should eat."

**

The tavern downstairs is serving rubbish, and Geralt won't allow Jaskier to sit down and order something no matter how much he insists. Geralt's nose can tell him far too much about how poor their kitchens are.

Going further into town, they find a more expensive tavern that has some movement indoors, but is not yet open. Jaskier manages to charm their way in, thanking the owner many times and smiling in the way that makes older women so quick to become fond of him. Geralt is normally very tolerant of this kind of thing, but he finds himself standing closer to Jaskier, between him and others, between him and the door.

Jaskier makes conversation with the young girl wiping down the tables before they're set. She's fascinated by the story of the wolves and tells them that the local Castellan has promised five orens per adult wolf tail.

"That's very kind of the Castellan," Jaskier tells the girl, grinning. "Did you know his birthday is today?"

She nods several times. "Are you here to play music for him at his party?" When Jaskier nods, she turns to Geralt. "And are you here to kill the beast that killed my uncle?"

An awkward pause fills the room.

"My uncle was a bastard and a thief," the girl adds helpfully.

Geralt clears his throat. "Hmm."

"Geralt's here to take care of the centipede, yes." Jaskier coughs. "Giant. Centipede. It's not a regular centipede."

"I know that," the girl says. "A town putting a bounty on a regular bug would be quite silly."

She finishes cleaning and walks back to the kitchens. Geralt looks at Jaskier. "You aren't performing tonight," Geralt tells him quietly.

Jaskier frowns. "Has the party been canceled?"

"No." Geralt folds his arms on the table. "But you're healing from serious wounds. There's no need for you to-"

"I'll be _standing up_ and _singing,_ Witcher."

Geralt fixes him with a look. "And I suppose you're taking a carriage to the event?"

Jaskier is definitely haughty now, rolling his eyes and tossing his hair back. "Okay, yes, I'll be _walking_ somewhere, and then standing there, and singing while sta- ooh." A messy plate of bread heels, apple slices, and cheeses is put down - clearly whatever the kitchens could put together without disturbing their preparations. Jaskier gives a very earnest nod of thanks to the owner and pulls it closer, immediately honing in on the cheese.

This buys Geralt a little time to put reason behind his decision. He waits for the first three slices to get eaten, and half an apple, just to make sure the bard has something in his stomach. "You barely made it through last night. You said you ache, you said you're starving-"

Jaskier makes an annoyed face as he chews and swallows. "I'm _fine_ now."

Geralt grits his teeth. "You told me your _name_ last night. Your _given_ name." He has always known that Jaskier hates it, or he would have shared it by now. He hates most things connected to his family, or he would have shared it by now.

Jaskier throws his hands up. "I thought I wouldn't have another chance! I thought you'd want to know it! I - I was wrong. That potion felt like it was just stirring a wooden spoon through my guts but it wasn't, or if it was, it was doing it in a helpful way, making me vomit up all the torn up bits to make room for - can we have another plate, please?"

The owner's voice in the next room: "Next one's going to actually cost some coin, love."

"That's fine. Thank you." Jaskier slumps a little and grabs a bread heel. "Geralt. You're being ridiculous."

"You almost _died_."

"Yes, d- yes, and I see you almost die _all the time_ , and I've learned to accept that your mutations and those tiny little bottles do literal wonders, and I can't lose my head every time I see a flash of bone or a jug's worth of blood come out of you. If I have to learn that, maybe you do, too."

Geralt feels some rage flare up in his gut. "You're _human_ , Jaskier."

The owner slides a fresh plate next to the first. This one has pickles and some slices of cold ham on it. "Keg's tapped now. Two ales?"

"Yes, bless you." Jaskier touches her arm briefly. "Here, let me - an oren, keep the change."

The old woman winks and smiles, taking the coin and going back to the kitchens. A silence falls over the table, immune to the clattering and shouts nearby.

"Geralt."

Geralt stares at him. Jaskier looks back, demonstrably unaffected.

"Last night was awful. Literally one of the worst nights of my life. But we came this way in the first place so that I could cash in on my developing name and get some serious money for one night of work. And if we spent as much as I think we did last night, it wouldn't hurt to build our finances back up and-"

"You don't _owe_ me for the _potions._ "

Jaskier rolls his eyes. "I know! There hasn't been an 'owe' between us for years, has there? I want money so we can buy another. Maybe two again, if we can find them. I might-" Jaskier stops and points at Geralt's face. "See? You just don't like the idea of there being a next time. _That's_ what this is about."

"What _what's_ about?" Geralt snaps, before he realizes he doesn't want to know.

"You, all morning. You've been grumpy and cranky and telling me what I can and can't do,"

"I'm not a _child_ , Jaskier, I'm not-"

"'You can't eat the food here!' 'You can't go perform! You need to rest!'"

Geralt growls and slams his hand on the table. 

The room goes still. The kitchens have gone oddly still. The old woman, holding two tankards, pauses for a few seconds in the doorway before continuing over, placing them down silently, and walking back. Jaskier, however, is still staring him down, unaffected.

"You _aren't_ a child, but you're _acting_ like one." The bard leans forward as Geralt leans away. "Tell me. What were you thinking last night?" He lowers his voice to almost silent. "When you kissed me?"

What does that have to do with anything? Geralt casts his mind back to that moment, to Jaskier on top of him, fragile, stunned, reacting like Geralt had just told him some deep secret. He gives Jaskier an annoyed, questioning look and says nothing.

Jaskier sighs. "Right. Of course." He pops a pickle slice into his mouth. "I'm going to inhale all the food you don't get to before me, and then I'm going back to our room and taking a nap. _Before my performance._ "

**

Jaskier's been asleep for over two hours. Geralt's never seen the man sleep nearly this long during the day unless they had to work through the night for some reason.

Geralt sits and eats some of the dry rations, since he held back at breakfast to let Jaskier eat his fill. He watches Jaskier sleep, the slow rise and fall of his sides, the soft little sounds he makes when he moves this way or that. Jaskier hasn't had many opportunities since they started going to bed together to sleep on his own. He seems to be taking to it fine, some dark part of Geralt's mind observes.

He doesn't know where this unease comes from. He didn't like it when Jaskier touched the old woman's arm, when he walked too quickly back to their room. Geralt _lost his temper_ at the tavern, struck the table, and didn't have the good sense to realize it in the moment, let alone apologize. Jaskier had just glared at him, like he wasn't surprised, only disappointed by the behavior.

Geralt _does_ feel concern at the idea of this happening again. Of not being fast enough to keep something from hurting Jaskier mortally. This isn't a new risk, but it feels so much sharper and clearer in his mind, a nail driving more and more deeply into him.

Turned away as he is now, Geralt can only see the barest flash of mottled pale skin on Jaskier's right bicep.

He's getting nowhere. Geralt gets to his feet and gets his armor on, quietly, and goes downstairs to buy a plate of bread and butter. He slides back into the room, setting it by the jug of water.

"Jaskier." He puts his glove on his bare hip.

The bard barely stirs. Geralt feels sure Jaskier could sleep through the rest of the day, except perhaps to eat again.

"Jaskier." He taps a few times, gently.

"Mm?" His eyes are still closed.

"There's some bread for you. Stay here. I'm going to go get the wolf tails."

A beat. "Bread," Jaskier says finally, and scrunches his face into an unbecoming expression before rolling over to his other side and beginning to snore.

Good enough.

Geralt takes Roach back to the path they took into town, finding that the wolf corpses have been undisturbed since last night. He hacks off seven tails in total, perhaps with more violence than is strictly called for.

" _Whmm_ ," Roach observes.

"I don't care," Geralt says back. "He can be angry all he likes. _You_ saw him last night. I'm being _sensible._ "

Roach circles in place a few times, only starting to trot away when Geralt is nearly close enough to put the bag of tails in her saddle bag.

" _Roach_."

Roach appears not to hear, doing a larger circle around Geralt and the general path. Geralt watches her, perturbed, for almost a full minute before she finally decides to be still and let him approach. "You've made your point."

**

Geralt rides past the inn window, and can see through the curtains that Jaskier is still on the bed asleep. Good. He walks Roach to the alderman, gets his coin for the tails, and talks briefly about his plans for the centipede before bringing Roach back to her stable and returning to the room.

Jaskier doesn't stir when he comes in. Geralt adds the orens to his coin purse and watches Jaskier a while longer as the sun begins to set. The man's scent hangs pleasantly in the room, a subtle note underneath the dusty warped oak floors, the watered down blood in the wash basin. Geralt feels restless and decides it's best to let Jaskier sleep and get a head start on his hunt. He slips out again, returns to Roach, and heads west to where the corpses have been discovered.

**

Centipedes are sensitive to tremors and heavy movements, so Geralt leaves Roach near some flowers that capture her interest. He strokes her side for a while, watching her nibble them with no particular rush.

"If you understand him so well, _you_ tell me what I'm supposed to say to him."

Roach lifts her head from the blooms, lipping patiently at his arm guard for a few moments before returning to her snack.

"Right." Geralt sighs, straightening and heading for the heart of the forest. "Be back soon."

The forest is quiet, tense. Geralt wonders if the centipede, which has a capacity to eat just about anything, has been eating enough of the prey animals in this area to account for how aggressive last night's wolves were.

A familiar sound - Geralt freezes, honing in on the whisper of skittering several dozen meters ahead. It's smaller than he expected - small mercies - but it sounds high up, as if the ground rises very quickly, or it's... no.

It better not be in a tree.

Geralt could try to sneak back to Roach and get the crossbow, but knowing where the mark is without being spotted first is too valuable to give up. Maybe he can lure it down, or use a sign, and maintain an upper hand. He takes a few steps closer, listening for another sound. No birds, no foxes, just wind on bare trees and...

There. Geralt only sees a glint of red-orange chitin, but it's enough to know which tree it's slithering up. He leans back on one leg and kicks the base of the tree hard with the other, making it shake, but not enough. Geralt snarls and backs up, sliding his blade to one hand and holding the other out. If he can get a straight shot, if he can just use the _simplest_ magic to stagger this thing, it should-

There's a long, high pitched hiss and a flash of pincers as the beast winds around the trunk of the tree. It's young, smaller, but it's _long_ , and Geralt has to back up a few steps, hand still extended, wait until it's uncurled most of its grip around the thick base of the tree to begin to strike-

The Aard sign connects and the centipede flinches, would stagger back if it weren't wound half around the tree, and can't reorient itself in time. Geralt takes his blade back into a firm two-handed grip and slices across its midsection, carving almost to its center before it can retreat. Nearly cut in half, it begins to skitter back up the tree, but the nerves to its lower half must be damaged, because the tiny pincer-like legs are twitching upwards, making no effort to grip to the bark. The creature can't carry itself up with only half its grip and strength, and Geralt makes another messy hack into the beast, through it, green innards oozing down Geralt's blade as he pulls it free of the bark.

The centipede droops and slides gracelessly off the tree, to Geralt's feet. It convulses a few times. Geralt drives his blade beneath the head area again, to be sure, and keeps his foot on it to keep it still as he starts working the head free of the rest of its body.

Disgusting, but definitely one of his easier hunts. This thing is probably about seven feet long, but no bigger around than a man. The sun has barely finished setting and he is already done, without injury to boot.

Geralt is in a better mood when he brings the sack to Roach, who looks perturbed to be taken away from her flowers so quickly, but headbutts Geralt's chest nonetheless, knocking him back a little. "You'll have to hold on to this until morning," Geralt says apologetically. "Most of the town will be at that celebration by now, so there's nobody to give it to yet."

Roach begins walking away.

"Hey! I'll wrap it in another bag. I'll make sure you won't smell it."

Roach whumphs and stops walking, letting Geralt catch up and pack the head deeply into one of the bags toward the back.

They ride back into town, not rushing. The quiet is pleasant and it's too rare that Geralt can enjoy the satisfaction of a job done without also being concerned over property damage or physical injury. Something causes him to pause at the sight of the inn, though, and instead of turning right to put Roach in her stable, Geralt goes straight, bringing her up to their room's window.

There isn't much visibility, but there is clearly nobody and nothing on the bed.

Geralt grimaces. He looks around as much of the rest of the room as he can - no movement, nothing. Fucking Jaskier. Stubborn bastard. The Castellan's grounds are a twenty minute walk at least, and he just-

" _Whmmm_."

Geralt glares down at Roach. "I _know_ he is," he snaps. "But he was sleeping like the dead, eating enough for two grown men, he's in no condition to-"

" _Rrrhm_."

"His career will be _fine_ , he's probably one of the be- he's one of the most famous performers for seven days ride in any direction, he doesn't need to -" Geralt growls, bringing his heels in again. "Roach!"

Roach snorts, making a point of turning very slowly and heading back to her stable. Geralt curses the sky, unable to do anything but go where he's taken. She slots into her space next to two older-looking mares and dips her snout delicately to the water trough, as if nothing is amiss.

"You two make quite the pair." Geralt throws his leg over and hops off, throwing her reigns over the peg and walking away.

Geralt can hear Roach snort again, making bubbles in the trough.

 _Damn them both._ Geralt heads to the main road, up the hill, to the Castellan's gardens. He has quite some time to decide what he's going to do and say, and doesn't seem to be able to make use of it at all - the same roiling feeling continues in his gut, unable to be stamped down or identified, and Geralt feels all over again like he is completely disconnected from himself, like there is some base and undeniable part of his mind that he is cursed to never control or understand.

He is on a winding path bordered by rose bushes, not yet crested the hill ahead, and he can already hear the celebration. There is some chatter, some clinking of metal plates and metal tankards, and of course a melody, a lute-

-Geralt hasn't heard this before.

He breaks into a jog, frowning at the unfamiliar tune. It's not unlike _Breeze of Autumn_ , but there's something about it that's... different, a little slower, more beautiful, drawing Geralt closer. Jaskier resumes singing. At the last moment, Geralt fears putting Jaskier off somehow by his presence, and only moves close enough to hear better, not close enough to see and risk being seen.

Jaskier is singing about a... a keep. He's singing _to_ a keep. He is describing its towering spires rising out of the mountain peaks, the ancient walls built high and standing strong in the absence of their creators. The forest around it is thick and its trees grow tall, but never tall enough to crest the walls devoted to denying all entry.

Beyond the walls is a dried moat of bones. Geralt feels a flicker of understanding as Jaskier sings about the bodies left there so long ago, left as a warning, the keep becoming abandoned and its air stale as there is no-one left who knows how to reach it.

Jaskier is singing about _Kaer Morhen_.

Geralt feels his throat go into a knot. Jaskier is singing the refrain now. It sounds like he's sung it before, and is building upon it; he sings about the raging, ancient sea that the keep once overlooked, dried up long ago, the sea birds that once flocked to the shores having moved on.

Jaskier is singing about the forest, still there, with soft breezes of fresh soil, seedlings, trying to coax past the walls, trying to bring in fresh life. He repeats the last line twice.

The next stanza describes breaths of new growth, of dandelions, clover, stubborn weeds taking root in the abandoned soil. Sharp brambles grow over the walls, reinforcing them. Wild sweet grapes grow up the window ledges, safe from predators. Wild roses make safe havens for small creatures. The way Jaskier sings it, it's just an image, a possibility. He's trying to convince the keep to allow it.

He is trying to reassure the keep that when the plants die, they'll just beget new ones. It won't be the permanent death of the men before.

Jaskier sings the refrain again. The last line is repeated three times now.

" _The sea may be gone, but the forest waits at your side_  
 _These blooms and soft leaves could be your new tide_ "

The lyrics end and the strumming continues, careful, slow, to almost no sound at all from the audience. As the lute finally peters out, there is applause, quiet at first and then louder. Geralt is held in place as if by a spell, listening to clapping, to voices, to Jaskier's soft laughter above them all, bashful and appreciative.

"Thank you," he says, projecting his voice over the others. "You've been so lovely, and Castellan Hofstadt, I don't think any of us could ask for better food or drink for such a lovely celebration." He lowers his voice a touch, pretending to whisper: "But perhaps spring for some decent musicians, next time?" The crowd laughs, delighted. "I am so pleased to introduce our next performer, they save the best for last, you know - the Castellan's own daughter is going to grace us with some _beautiful_ singing, we are all very lucky for such a treat, please give her a warm welcome-" Applause rises. "-yes, good, but you can do better!" Laughter, more applause. "There, lovely. Miss Elsie, if you'd come up, yes, there, perfect. Miss Elsie Hofstadt, everyone."

The crowd quiets back down as a young girl begins to sing a classic song about a brave knight; she is a little off key, clearly extremely nervous. Geralt tries to collect himself, to make himself breathe. Jaskier has gone on so often and so much about _nuance_ , and _symbolism_ , and _motifs_ , and while so much of it was lost on him, the general idea of hiding a message in a song was clear enough. The last two new songs rise up into his mind, now put under this same lens, this new understanding - it is almost overwhelming, and Geralt feels like there has been so much revealed to him that he cannot possibly digest any of it yet, he can only stand like a fool on a garden path, staring at nothing, until

Jaskier is there.

Geralt stares. Jaskier, lute slung over his shoulder, has crested the hill, wearing the expensive new outfit he bought last week. Pale blue silk, delicate embroidery, gold stitching at the cuffs and neck. In the colored light of the setting sun, it almost looks lavender, or rose. Jaskier grips the strap to his lute case, looking caught out, uncertain.

Neither move for several seconds. Geralt has no idea what expression is on his face, that makes Jaskier so hesitant to begin walking, to stop so far away from Geralt's reach.

"I did a _short_ set," Jaskier says, a mixture of nervous and petulant. The wind rises up a touch, pushing his hair from his face.

Geralt stares and can't get his throat to cooperate. "How," he chokes out. "How do you feel?"

Jaskier shrugs and flushes a little, looking away now, to the rose bushes by the path. "I, um, I only woke up about an hour ago, and I felt fine, until I got here and saw all the food, and I think the, um, the servants here hate me, I ate about a whole turkey's worth of appetizers before my set. But. Now I'm quite tired but I'm definitely not hungry, and, and I think my set was long enough that I should get paid tomorrow." He bites his lip, looking back to the sound of the young girl working her way through the song's bridge. "I gave her as gentle an audience as I could. Honestly, I think that's worth more than my performance itself."

"Your performance," Geralt echoes, slowly.

Jaskier straightens. "Ready to walk back? I'm ready to walk back. Maybe lie down some more, I'm sure you'd like, um, like to see me resting again, after I," He gestures over to the party again. "I strained myself a tiny bit."

Geralt ruminates over this a moment, making up his mind, and finally turns and begins to walk back to the inn. Jaskier keeps pace behind him, but hangs back, never quite reaching his side - even when Geralt slows his pace a bit in case Jaskier is too tired to keep up, the other man stays exactly as far back as before. He is avoiding more conversation. He feels caught. Geralt was not meant to hear this song.

The town is quiet. It's starting to become dark enough that Jaskier can't see well, and the lamplighter has not been through yet. When they reach the inn, Jaskier catches his foot on a missed step up, and Geralt reaches out by instinct, taking him by the elbow to steady him - Jaskier's face flushes _so_ hotly, much more than the situation calls for. Geralt says nothing, shepherding him inside, up the stairs, to the room, where a bath has been left.

"For you," Jaskier says, pointing, perhaps a bit desperate for a gift to offer and a new conversation topic. "I figured you - you went and killed the centipede, I take it? You don't look very goopy, but-"

"It's dead." Geralt begins taking his armor off. "Go ahead, get in."

Jaskier doesn't move at first, so Geralt takes his gloves off and begins on Jaskier's doublet, carefully unbuttoning, letting himself breathe the other man in as he undresses him. Jaskier's heart is rabbiting, uncertain, as Geralt pushes the fabric back, off his shoulders, moves to fold it on the bed as Jaskier sits down and works off his boots. By the time Jaskier is in the tub, Geralt has gotten his armor off, and then his shirt, so he can sit behind the tub and take over Jaskier's usual position.

"Geralt," Jaskier says, uncertain.

"Is the water good?"

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. His hands are in his lap instead of along the rim of the tub. "I should have asked them not to bring it up for a while, it's gone - it's room temperature, it's fine."

Geralt hmms and gets the small bucket, scooping a small amount off and letting it tip down over Jaskier's chest. Jaskier lets out a sigh, seeming to relax a little. Geralt does this motion again, and then, when Jaskier obediently bends forward, pours water down his back.

"The song about traveling," Geralt says quietly.

The lines of Jaskier's shoulder blades jut out in immediate tension.

"It's sad." Geralt sets the bucket down and Jaskier leans back again. "You say the grain moves like crowds. It reminds you you're traveling alone."

There's a long silence. "That's," he trails off. "Yes, it's about traveling alone."

"It's about _you_ traveling alone."

Jaskier's voice is much quieter. "Yes."

Geralt nods. He picks up the rag on the stool, dipping it into the water and handing it to him, but Jaskier's hand is trembling and seems to only be able to take it, not use it. "The song about sitting by water that's green as a jewel. It's about wanting to be away from everything and alone with-"

"Yes."

Geralt nods, although Jaskier is still looking ahead and can't see him. "And Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier looks down, chin tucked to his chest, saying something regretful and almost silent.

"What?"

"You weren't supposed to-" He swallows. "It's not _done_ yet."

Geralt frowns. "You _performed_ it."

"Yes, but," Jaskier's hands come out of the water to gesture suddenly. "Just because I played a draft to some nobodies here doesn't mean, it, it was..."

"It's for me, so you. Only wanted me to hear it when it was..." He reaches for the word. "When it was the way you wanted it."

The water sloshes quietly as Jaskier draws his knees up to his chest, looking away. The flush is down his neck now, just reaching his shoulders.

"Kaer Morhen," Geralt says slowly, "is me, and-"

"-and I'm _weeds_ , yes." Jaskier laughs hollowly and brings himself in tighter. It makes Geralt want to reach out and touch him, but he's not sure yet. "I'm, it's... I, you said something, once, when I was drunk, about walls, and I always had this stupid image in my head of walls and fields or, or forests,"

"You're the clover." Unable to keep himself away any longer, Geralt leans forward, pressing his nose, his lips to the spot behind Jaskier's ear. The soft hair, the warm skin. The other man holds still. "The dandelions. The brambles."

Jaskier turns slightly toward him, searching, trying to read his expression. "Yes," he admits.

"Did you read about Kaer Morhen?"

"I got you to talk about it... maybe ten years ago," Jaskier says. "You sort of talked about the place but not about you _being_ there, but I. I still remembered most of it."

Ten years ago. That reminds him. "This is... unrelated, mostly," Geralt begins. Jaskier looks confused. "About. Fifteen years ago? I think we'd met about five years before? There was that rogue mage that I had to kill, the man with the-"

"-the beard," Jaskier says, catching on immediately. He blinks rapidly, trying to remember more. "He'd been abducting townsfolk because-"

Geralt waves that part away. "When I killed him, and sold most of his belongings." Jaskier nods. "That's where I got the white phoenix tea. And I gave it to you without... telling you what it was."

Jaskier's confusion begins to grow into worry. "What did you do?"

Geralt sighs, looking down. "The leaves, when picked correctly, and then enchanted, and then brewed in river water... they slow a human's aging process. For. Anywhere from seven to ten years." He grimaces. "I didn't want to. Tell you. I was" _say it_ "scared of you knowing that you felt important to me, and-"

" _Geralt._ "

Geralt looks up. "I'm sorry."

Jaskier is turned toward him completely now, hands on the rim of the tub. "You gave me... youth? Tea?" Geralt opens his mouth to respond. "Magic youth tea?"

"Yes," Geralt says. "There's no negative side effects, nothing like that, but it was wrong of me not to tell you. To not ask." He rubs the back of his neck, feeling droplets cling and travel down his spine. "I wouldn't ever do that now, but I shouldn't hide that I did it then."

Jaskier's eyes are tracking left to right, remembering. "Yennefer... she..."

Geralt nods. "She gave it to you too. And, I doubt she feels any remorse at all about doing something without asking you first-"

"Oh she _absolutely_ didn't think twice and doesn't give a shit." Jaskier lifts his eyebrows and shakes his head. "Sweet Melitele. Geralt. Are you saying I've got an extra twenty or so years?" A beat. "Is this why I - this _is_ why I've hardly aged!"

Geralt nods slowly. "You have. Every right to feel upset, or angry."

A few seconds stretch out, and Jaskier points at him suddenly. "This is a wish thing," he says with sudden conviction. "This is you being worried that-"

" _Yes_ ," Geralt bites out, tensing now as he feels his composure dissipate. "I just - you should _know_ , and I never told you."

"So you're telling me now."

"Yes."

Jaskier nods. "Do it whenever."

Geralt cants his head.

"You have... blanket permission." Jaskier waves his hand openly. "Any youth potions, beauty potions, _talent?_ Potions? If those exist? Any other rare, fabulous no-side effects magic that makes me live longer or whatever else, absolutely, the answer is always yes. Grind it up, put it in my food, whatever the spell calls for. I'm game."

Geralt feels a smile beginning to tug at his face. "I'm. Glad."

Jaskier smiles back. There's relief in his eyes, the previous conversation more or less forgotten as Geralt leans forward a bit, Jaskier tilting his face up to allow him to better fit in a brief embrace. Geralt brushes his cheek against Jaskier's, gentle. "The songs are about how you love me," he says softly.

Jaskier is perfectly still.

Geralt's arm across his shoulders rubs up and down, a slow metronome across his back, as he does in bed. "And you were worried about me reacting poorly. Because I... react poorly. Often. To things about feelings." Jaskier's heart is beating faster, there's a faint scent of fear, the tiniest wisp, an indication of worry, and Geralt noses down Jaskier's throat, trying to chase it away. "And then you thought you were going to die, and you... were upset that I didn't know yet. About how you felt, or. About how I felt."

Jaskier turns further toward him, eyes slightly wet. Geralt cups his cheek, frowning at the hesitation in his expression, the patch of white skin on his arm. He looks so vulnerable.

"I can't write songs back to you, Jaskier."

Jaskier swallows. "You don't have to."

Geralt's thumb brushes under his eyes, drawing some of the wetness away. "You already know that my kind feel the same things that humans do... and that we're trained to. Fight it, keep it down. So we can focus."

Jaskier nods.

"I'm going to keep making mistakes."

"I don't care."

The way Jaskier says it, barely aloud, with such immediate certainty - Geralt leans in, pressing his mouth to his, feeling Jaskier's soft lips open immediately to him, letting him lick inside and claim him. The water shifts as Jaskier leans further, reaching out and tangling his fingers in Geralt's hair. When they pull back, Geralt can only retreat a few inches.

"You just have to say it," Jaskier says, nose brushing Geralt's. "Just here. Where nobody else is. You just have to say it to me."

"I love you." Instantly. Geralt watches the words bloom across Jaskier's face, the understanding, the weight, surprise and relief and something unnamed, something beautiful, as Jaskier pulls him in again, mouths clashing together, then cheeks against one another, and finally Jaskier lets him go so he can climb out of the tub entirely, laughing, pushing Geralt down onto the floor and getting him soaked as he climbs on top of him and holds him there.

"Again," Jaskier demands quietly, the grin evident in his voice.

Geralt scoffs and laughs, tipping his head back against the floor. "I do," he says, feeling Jaskier straddle his hips, bracketing his face with his forearms so he can lean down and begin pressing kiss after kiss along his cheek, his neck.

"The _whole thing_ ," Jaskier murmurs.

"I-" Geralt sputters, hands coming up to Jaskier's shoulders to try to ease him off. "I don't get one?"

"You have _three songs_ ," Jaskier says, wriggling out of his grip and beginning to kiss along his ear now, the spot beneath it. "I-"

"You never _say_ it in any of the-"

"-I say it _very clearly_ -"

Geralt laughs again, grabbing Jaskier's face this time and bringing him in for a proper kiss.

"I do love you," Jaskier breathes, when they pull away. Saying it seems to make him so happy, like a weight is lifted from him. He watches Geralt's face and wonders if it's the same as when Geralt said it, and got to see him. "I love you, Geralt. I love you, you big oaf. You absolute moron. I love you."

"You're terrible at this!"

"I'm _honest_. You broke the dam." Jaskier turns his head, kissing one of Geralt's palms. "Gods, you'll _never_ be rid of me now."

Geralt smiles up at him. "Like weeds?"

Jaskier kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now! I've been [**chaya/fieldbears**](https://fieldbears.tumblr.com/)! Let me get my thank-yous done before I get played off by the music:
> 
> Thank you [**sorrelchestnut**](https://sorrelchestnut.tumblr.com/) for your patient witch-picking and your pom poms. Thank you [**caitercates**](https://caitercates.tumblr.com/) and [**rathernoon**](https://rathernoon.tumblr.com/) for your pom poms. Thank you everyone who reblogged with tags, who bookmarked with tags, and especially those of you who commented on every chapter you read - I don't know if you realize that that kind of energy is what powers me so consistently. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Clover, and Other Beloved Weeds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828107) by [greedy_dancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer)




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